and our taps reversed
by Lachesis Grimm
Summary: "We're going to be okay?" "We're going to be okay." [Sequel to "play it sweetly, take me down, oh jazzman." Phil Coulson/Jemma Simmons]
1. the blinking snow

He lost track of Jemma less than a hundred feet from the house, and for one bitter moment he wondered if he were trapped in a new, vivid nightmare... or worse, that they had been followed to their current location.

Then cold, wet snow smacked against the side of his head, dripping underneath his collar, and he smiled. No danger, no nightmare- just a wife in a playful mood giggling behind a nearby tree.

"Before I figure out my next move, tell me one thing." He glanced back to the spot he now _knew_ she was, all the while considering the terrain around them. "Would it be out of the question to chase you?"

"In this particular situation, I encourage you to." She leaned around the tree, meeting his gaze and offering a flirtatious smile. "_You_ are free to hunt me down… pin me against a tree… maybe throw me over your shoulder and take me inside…"

The idea was incredibly tempting, but he had to ask. "Do we need a safeword?"

"Our safeword is 'stop'. 'No' and 'don't' would also be acceptable." She raised a brow. "I know you, Phil. You don't play those kinds of games."

"True."

"Give me a head start. Sixty seconds." She was back to smiling, clapping her hands together with the kind of joy that had been lacking in her for a while. "Ready?"

"Go."

She turned and sprinted away from him, veering back toward the house in a shallow arc. The hat she had been wearing did not survive her flight, instead landing in a snow drift under a tree.

He was scrupulous in counting out the seconds, partially because that was fair play, and partially because he was already enjoying this little game and anticipating the moment when he caught up with her. When her time did run out, he followed her footsteps with a slow jog, stopping to save her hat from the elements.

She was leaving a trail that anyone could follow behind her, though that was hardly a problem. Broken snow strewn to either side of her path, indicating her haste, and then- nothing.

He stopped in the middle of a clearing, considering his surroundings. Clean, unmarred snow in all directions. She had doubled back, obviously, and he had missed the signs amidst the mess she had left behind.

Back into the woods he went, eyeing his surroundings carefully. She hadn't had the time to go too far, otherwise he would have encountered her on his way. She had done something tricky.

He spotted it, finally: a low-hanging tree limb near the trail, on which the snow had been disturbed in a way that could not have been by any animal. She hadn't climbed the tree- he could see enough of it to know that- but she had certainly used that branch to swing herself away to new ground.

Not too far, at that. He found her tucked in a crook of tree limbs when he rounded the trunk, and on spotting him she smiled widely. "I could have kept going, but I was too impatient to be found," she explained as he drew closer, blocking her escape route. "But you did run past me the first time," she added with a certain amount of pride.

"That I did. A very nice move, dear." He leaned against the tree, giving her a teasing smile. "And what shall I do with you, now that I've tracked you down?"

In answer she held out her arms, obviously all too happy to be caught. He moved in to embrace her, and then, at the last moment, pulled her abandoned hat over her mussed hair. "You left that behind."

"My hero. My ears were getting cold." She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close and pressing a warm kiss to his jaw. "Perhaps you could take me inside and let me thank you."

This carefree Jemma was a wonder. "I'm more interested in making sure every inch of you stays warm."

"That would be a side-effect of letting me thank you." She had moved to the skin above his collar, her mouth warming the patch that had been chilled by her snowball. "We could put some blankets down in front of the fireplace."

"You always have the best ideas." He released her, turning away and bending his knees. "Come on. I'd toss you over my shoulder, but if I slipped we would both be in trouble."

She was laughing as he slid his arms under her legs to stabilize her, but as he walked she went back to kissing what skin she could reach on the back of his neck. "That's very distracting," he pointed out, choosing his steps carefully.

"Oh, I know. Someone made that very clear to me last night." Her tongue swept against his skin, hot followed quickly by cold. "Not that I didn't enjoy it, mind."

"Yeah, I was pretty sure that you liked that particular position."

"Cheeky."

He noticed before she did: a faint light glinting through a window where no light should have been. The house had been dark, when they left. "Jemma, I'm going to put you down," he said in a soft voice, letting her slide slowly to the ground. "Stay behind me, okay, sweetheart?"

"Do you have an extra gun?"

He resisted the urge to glance back at her. "No, but when we get back, we'll make sure you get extra target practice."

He did have one gun on him- force of habit, and he would hardly be going without now- and he kept it steady as he edged through the silent door (hinges oiled within an inch of their lives, blessedly) and down the hall.

Then, of course, he took a sharp turn around the entrance to the den and found himself leveling a gun at Captain America. That had not been on his bucket list.

"Steve, what the _hell?_"

"Steve?" Jemma peered around the corner, confusion on her face. "Are we being invaded by the Avengers?"

"Just me." Steve still sat quietly on a chair facing the door, near the lit fireplace. That had been the light glinting in the window; the fire had been banked when they left the house. "Leaving was a mistake, Coulson."

Leaving had gotten Phil a marriage certificate and a relaxed soulmate, both of which were rather important, in his eyes. "We were coming back in a few days. Didn't Nat say anything?"

"She said that. Have you talked with her?"

Steve Rogers was giving him a disappointed look, and that was weird as hell. "Not since she dropped us off."

"Skye's shaking the foundations- still. Fury got word on back channels that Brock Rumlow has gotten wind of the whole mess and is trying to find her trail."

Neither of which were good things- and wasn't Rumlow dead?- but both seemed par for the course.

Before he could respond, Jemma spoke up. "Why are you here, Captain Rogers?" She moved to stand beside him, her hand brushing against his. Some of her old steel was back in her voice. "If Fury has once again taken on SHIELD, then he would be the person to discuss this with."

"My trust in Fury has been a little low since the whole incident with Project Insight. I'm more inclined to trust you, Agent Coulson."

Phil got the feeling that Steve was giving his trust rather grudgingly. "That's very kind of you, but I'm stepping down."

"And stepping away from your responsibilities," Steve replied in a very calm, measured tone, and Phil took it like the slap in the face it was obviously intended to be.

"Not all of them," he replied before Jemma could make the retort she was obviously longing to make. "Sometimes it's good to reconsider one's priorities."

Steve merely gave him that disappointed look once more, and- strangely- Phil found himself feeling almost angry. Was the man so blind? He had been given a taste of how Jemma had been affected by her ordeal, in that moment in the hall with Clint. Was it any wonder that Phil wanted to spend some time focusing on the well-being of his soulmate?

"Skye had a panic attack and one of the storage rooms collapsed," Steve said quietly, and in the silence that followed Phil felt Jemma slip her arms around his waist, one of her hands coming up to draw his head down against her shoulder.

"Skye was not comfortable being around me," Jemma replied, her voice equally quiet. "Natasha thought it best if I left for a little while."

"This isn't your fault," Phil muttered against the fabric of her jacket.

"No, but that was one of the reasons we left."

"Did you both have to leave?"

Phil did pull away from Jemma at that, turning toward Steve with an incredulous look. It wasn't like Steve to be so… so _thoughtless_. "Yes. Because we're a package deal, Steve. I wasn't going to pack up my wife and ship her off for a week."

"Sometimes a hard call has to be made. You have a woman back at the base who could turn the entire thing to rubble, Coulson, and you just ran off."

He could see Jemma shrink into herself at that comment, and on impulse Phil reached out and grabbed Steve's arm. "Excuse us for a minute," he said in the most cordial tone he could muster, pulling Steve out of his chair by sheer will-power and hauling him out and down the hall.

"I want this to be absolutely clear," he said quietly once he was sure they were out of earshot. "My wife is my first priority."

"Coulson-"

"She has been traumatized, and deserves as much if not _more_ care than I am capable of giving her. And I love Skye, do you understand?" It was unnerving keeping Steve's gaze, but Phil steeled himself against the task. "She's dear to me, but the woman who bears my soulmark is far dearer."

"Fitz almost died in that collapse." Steve's expression had softened minutely, but he obviously had a point to make. "He's fine, but if he had been standing another foot to the left…"

"I'm glad he wasn't." Phil released Steve's arm and took a step back. "Is this just Skye, Steve? Have you taken a shine to her?"

Phil had the feeling that only Steve's manners were keeping him from punching a hole in the wall. "Rumlow's also trying to find Bucky."

Of course he was. Phil suddenly wanted a scotch and an hour of silence- or even better, a scotch and Jemma petting his hair. "Mr. Barnes hasn't been seen since DC," he said, carefully avoiding using the asset name of _Winter Soldier._ "I'm not surprised that Hydra is looking for him."

"Rumlow's trickier than most." Steve ran a hand through his hair, looking distressed. "It's barely been more than a year for me, do you realize that? Decades may have passed for the rest of the world, but losing him the first time is still pretty damn fresh. And the second- _hell._"

"Is he your mark?"

Steve was silent for a moment. "He was one of them."

Implying that there was a second. Peggy Carter, Phil was guessing. "Was?"

"Still is, I guess." Steve suddenly gave him an odd look. "You weren't wearing a wedding band when you left."

"That is a recent development."

Steve's shoulders sagged at that, and he sat in a nearby chair. "This was a mistake," he muttered, pressing his face against his hands.

"Yep." It was interesting, scolding his childhood hero. Phil was finding the experience highly enlightening. "Soulbonds have a way of putting things into perspective, don't they?"

The look he got for that was rather grumpy, but Steve nodded in acknowledgment. "I apologize for ruining your honeymoon."

"I'll forgive you, eventually." Phil turned and headed back down the hall, not caring whether or not Steve followed. "You can stay tonight, but then you have to leave."

Jemma was leaning against the doorframe that led into the den, and she caught his gaze. "We're going with him," she said softly.

"No, Steve is going back by himself."

"No, he isn't." She sighed, a nervous furrow between her brows. "I would stay, because… because of Skye… but leaving me on my own might cause more trouble."

If someone tracked her here, she meant. Phil wasn't sure he would be able to get anything done without her, even if there had been no danger. "Jem-"

"The knowledge would haunt us both." Her gaze skid askew to land somewhere behind him- Steve, most likely. "Maybe we should just leave now."

It was the last thing Phil wanted to do, with three days left of their precious week, but she had a point: the remaining days would have been tainted by the knowledge of what waited for them. "In the morning," he said firmly. "Are you hungry? You look hungry."

"It's sweet how you think feeding me will fix everything."

"Perhaps I'm just afraid that without me you would subsist on beer and sriracha sauce."

The look she cast him was almost amused. "I know you've probably just given Steve a good scolding, but cook enough for two adults and a super soldier, hmm? I wouldn't want our pilot to go hungry."

They were safely in the kitchen by then, temporarily away from prying eyes. "Say the word and we leave," he said in a serious whisper. "I'll take you away from everything."

"I know you would, jazz man." She kissed him gently, her hands curling around his coat collar. "You have my word."

* * *

The entire house felt different, with Steve tucked away in one of the guest rooms down the hall. Jemma had felt safe for the past few days- safer that she had in quite a while, in all honesty- and just having another person present had shaken her.

Not that Steve was dangerous, per se. He wasn't exactly a fan of her at the moment, as far as she could tell, but he wasn't dangerous.

With a disgruntled huff she pulled a loose t-shirt over her head and selected a thick pair of Phil's socks to wear. Sexy was no longer on the agenda; comfortable cuddling was.

"This isn't the escape I wanted to give you," Phil said after he entered the room, locking the door behind him. He looked genuinely upset. "I'm so sorry, Jemma."

"Phil, this is hardly your fault. And what days we had were lovely." She padded across the floor to him, taking his hands in hers. "We may be a bit soured on SHIELD at the moment, but we both volunteered for this."

"Never really thought resurrection was on the table," he replied dryly, his fingers stroking against the skin of her wrists. "But I get your point."

Something had been bothering Jemma ever since Steve's arrival, all through the silent and awkward dinner. "I thought Rumlow died in DC."

"So did I. That seems to be happening a lot, lately." He sighed, pulling her into his arms with a look that she recognized. This was worried Phil- deep furrow across the brow, the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Rumlow and I may have something in common, now."

"Hush. Even if he's been dosed with GH325, that still doesn't mean anything. You're nothing like him." It was absurd, really. "Come to bed. We have an early morning."

Too early for the kind of day they would be having, most likely. Jemma didn't even want to dwell on everything ahead of them, but her peace had been ruined and the only solution seemed to be to face her troubles head-on. She considered the list as Phil readied himself for bed, feeling her spirits ebb with each addition: Skye, the unknown factor of Rumlow, Cal and the agent locked in the vaults, the shadowy figures who had been discussing her almost-fate with Ward…

At least Ward himself was no longer an issue.

"Now we're both worrying," Phil said as he settled next to her. "What a pair we are."

"Let me help you, at least." She pushed gently on his shoulders. "On your stomach. Let me rub your back."

He rolled over without complaint, tossing his shirt to the bottom of the bed as he did so. "I'm going to return the favor."

"You can fall asleep. It's okay." She avoided the spots that were still bruised, concentrating on his shoulders and neck. "Just relax."

He muttered something against the sheets, and slowly but surely relaxed under her hands as she worked out several knots. "I'm going to protect you," he murmured sleepily at one point, lying limp and drowsy. "Won't let you go this alone."

"Oh, I know, you lovely man." She bent and placed a kiss at the top of his spine, smiling at his contented hum. "And it goes both ways."

"Good." He rolled over to smile up at her. "Fury will start thinking twice about ordering me about, with you ready to attack."

The sleepy, dopey grin he wore had her feeling soft and tender, and very, very protective. After turning off the light she nudged him onto his side and curled up behind him, wrapping an arm securely over his chest.

"I'm usually the big spoon," he commented with a yawn. "But this is nice."

"Sometimes even big, strong agents need to be cuddled." She draped one leg over his, enjoying the novel sensation of being the cuddler rather than the cuddlee. "Go to sleep, Phil."

"You're my favorite."

She smiled against his back. "I should hope so."

"My favorite of everyone."

His sleepy ramble was yet another indication of how nonexistent his guard was with her, and she pressed herself closer to him in response. "You're my favorite, too. Hush, love."

It took her longer to fall asleep, but she eventually managed it, only to slip into a nightmare of quaking tunnels and her picture plastered against the walls, shredding as the stone behind them crumbled into ruin. She was running down the tunnels, scrambling and jumping over fallen columns and crevices in the ground.

The ceiling collapsed above, and she dove under a nearby bench, leaving her trapped in a pocket of air under the stone. She had a moment of rational thought- _this is just a dream_\- before hands thrust themselves through the rubble from all directions, tugging at her clothing and grabbing her with bruising force.

Her world rocked on its axis as the scream that ripped from her throat both echoed against the stone and spread further, real hands gentle against her arms amidst the violent tug of phantom ones.

And then she blinked and found herself curled up on Phil's lap, shaking and in a cold sweat. Someone was pounding against the door- Steve, she realized belatedly- and as one of Phil's hands passed over her hair he said something sharp in response to Steve's question.

Jemma was too busy steadying her breathing to pay attention to their exchange, only dimly taking notice of footsteps walking away from their door.

"There now, sweetheart," he murmured, tilting her chin up gently to meet her eyes. "You're awake? Good. Nothing to fear, here. Just us in this room."

"They're going to come for me," she whispered, ducking her head back down to rest it against his chest. "I don't want them touching me, Phil."

"No one will be touching you without your permission." It was the utter certainty and firmness in his voice to broke through to her, and she took in a shuddering breath and willed herself to stop shaking. It didn't work, but the feeling of phantom hands dimmed. "That includes me, if there is ever a question."

"I trust you."

"Thank you. That means a lot to me." He began to rub a hand in soothing circles against her back, which only served to remind her that she was shivering in her damp shirt.

"Will you please help me put on something dry?" she asked in a whisper.

Her stiffened muscles complained as she unfolded herself from his lap. She stripped herself to the skin, socks and all, and raised her arms as he slid a sweatshirt over her head. After helping her into a loose pair of sweatpants and socks she allowed him to bundle her back into bed, where he wrapped her in his arms and murmured against her hair. She wasn't entirely sure what he was saying, but the tone was comforting.

"I'm scared to go back to sleep."

"We can stay up. Do you want the light back on?"

"No." The skin of his chest was warm against her cheek, and she shut her eyes, tired of staring into the shadows for movement. "Just… keep talking to me, please."

"Just let the nightmare flow away, bit by bit," he began, keeping his voice to a soothing, low pitch. "I'm right here, between you and everything else. No one else is in the room, no one here will hurt you. You are absolutely safe."

She let him pet her hair and whisper until the edges of the world grew hazy once more, lulling her so thoroughly that when sleep came, she didn't resist it.

* * *

There was a brief moment as he first woke when his thoughts were only of how warm Jemma felt against him. Then memory invaded- the way she had shook in his arms, the quaver in her voice- and he opened his eyes.

To his surprise, Jemma cuddled closer on seeing him awake, smiling sleepily. The only signs that she had passed a hard night were the shadows under her eyes. He didn't mention the nightmare- which had obviously been a doozy- for fear that bringing the topic up again might disturb what equilibrium she had managed to salvage.

Unexpectedly she pressed a lingering kiss under his jaw, one hand stroking his chest with the featherlight touches she used to tease. "Good morning," she said, moving her mouth to the delicate skin under one ear. "You look so sweet when you sleep."

He wasn't entirely sure how much sleep she had gotten that night, but he would guess not very much. "How are you?"

"Well enough." She moved to lounge next to him, watching his face carefully as she continued to sweep her fingertips across his skin. "Come take a shower with me."

He didn't think that a shower was all that she had planned. He followed her into the bathroom, keeping a careful eye on her expression as she stripped down and stepped under the spray of water.

"You're being so gentle," she commented after they had spent several minutes wasting water and exchanging caresses. "I won't break, Phil."

After the way she had screamed in the middle of the night and babbled about people coming to get her, taking her hard against the wall hadn't been his first instinct. "How do you want it, sweetheart?"

"Well, I wouldn't mind being held a bit more firmly. Anyone would think you were handling china," she said teasingly. Her smile dimmed slightly. "I know what you're thinking, Phil, but give me some normalcy, please."

"Not here, then. One of us might break a leg."

He gave her the morning wake-up she wanted on a pile of towels on the bathroom floor (her choice of location), his uncertainty dispelled by her eagerness and the encouragement spilling from her lips.

"That was just what I wanted," she told him afterward, her skin flushed rosy pink and her eyes bright. "Phil, that was _amazing_."

"No arguments here." The bathroom was a mess. He would have to leave a hefty tip for Stark's housekeeper. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Breakfast would be nice."

"Not a problem." He let one hand rest on her stomach as he sat beside her, stroking his thumb along the dip of her bellybutton. "I'm sorry for hesitating. You know yourself best."

"I can see why you did." She sighed and stretched lazily, reaching out to rest a hand on his thigh. "Last night was scary… but I don't like giving Ward and his tricks power, if I can help it." She turned her head to look at him full on. "Phil, you would tell me if you weren't in the mood, wouldn't you?"

"In all honesty, Jem, I'm pretty much always in the mood for you."

"Good. I want to know if I'm ever the one to impose." She looked far too earnest for him to suspect her of teasing. "You're so careful with me I would feel terrible if I were less than careful with you."

"You used to let me use you as a canvas rather than risk destroying my hands on the walls. I don't think you have much to worry about." He bent to place a kiss on her stomach, and ended up staying for two more. "It isn't too late to kick Steve out the door and tell him we'll be along in a few days."

"No." She sighed. "That frown of his is a weapon."

"You, too?"

"I'm not immune to that level of intense disappointment. It almost reminds me of… of my parents, actually. Or their reaction to my career."

"SHIELD could have given you a much more believable cover than 'corporate party planner', I agree. Though if you were a corporate party planner, you would be the CEO of your own company by now." He looped a damp strand of her hair around his finger, smiling- though in reality, he had heard too many hints about her parents' reactions to her 'career' for him to smile overmuch at the thought of them. "Pepper Potts would hire you exclusively."

"You are very silly sometimes." She sat up, grinning as she ran a hand over her tangled hair. "Look what you did to my hair."

"Not by myself, I didn't." They met in a quick kiss, and when they parted he was happy to see that even the shadows seemed to have lightened under her eyes. "Let me help you clean up, then… pancakes?"

"Pancakes."

* * *

The part of the base Jemma could see was in one piece, which was a minor blessing. That small bit of good luck was outweighed by the fact that they were greeted by Nick Fury's scowling face.

"_Coulson._"

Phil stiffened slightly beside her. "Hello to you, too, Nick."

"Why, exactly, is this lovely picture flooding the back channels of nearly every agency on the planet?" He thrust a photograph toward them, and for a moment Jemma was afraid that _she_ would be the sole subject- but then she realized that it was a captured moment from their time in Vegas.

"It's a good picture of us," Phil said calmly, sliding an arm around her shoulders. "When he was singing, remember?"

There she was, cheek pressed against Phil's shoulder with his arms wrapped firmly around her. She had been smiling very brightly, at that moment. "You look so handsome," she managed, hearing the tinge of discomfort in her voice. Doubtless everyone else had heard it as well. "Talbot?"

"No. Some Hydra jackass did him the favor of sending it to a number of highly ranked officials, in and out of Hydra. Talbot did get it eventually, though." Fury handed them a second piece of paper, looking not at all amused. "Congratulations, you now share a Wanted poster. The stuff romance is made of."

Some inter-agency taskforce had pulled this together, using the photographs that had been on their badges for this particular piece of art. Perhaps it was just the quality of the pictures- they looked like they had been run through a copier several times- but they both looked rather… hard. She remembered that picture of Phil's well: the mild smile, the gentle lines. Now that smile was almost uncanny. Her own eager expression had turned sharp and crafty.

"We look like candidates for orange jumpsuits, dear."

Phil pressed a kiss to her hairline as she made her shaky joke. "We could be the next Bonnie and Clyde. Lola is at your disposal, if you decide a crime spree is in order."

"Very funny." Fury was glowering at them. "Thanks to the two of you, now everyone and their mother knows that Phil-fucking-Coulson is still alive, and they have their sights set directly on the miracle zombie _and_ one of the best biochemists on the planet."

A risk Jemma had been aware of, but rather more chilling now that it was fact. "Oh. Lovely."

Fury gave her a look that was almost sympathetic. Still, his words, when he spoke, were very distinctly growled. "Congratulations on your marriage."

Phil pulled her into a hug as Fury stalked away, the papers crumpling between them. "Don't cry, sweetheart. You're going to be just fine."

And she was crying. Shit.

"Nick's the model of cheer, isn't he?"

Natasha, of course. She snuck a small pack of tissues into Jemma's hand. "I'm going to tell you now and get it over with," she continued. "After Skye had her accident he called in a few… experts. Sort of."

Jemma pulled away from Phil abruptly. "He didn't."

"I'm afraid he did." Natasha gave them a dry smile. "I've already informed Audrey about the marriage. She took it very well… and she's made remarkable progress, with Bruce's help. They might actually help Skye." Her gaze turned cold as Steve strode off the quinjet. "Captain."

"Nat-"

"Mind your own business, next time."

Jemma was amazed to see that he did look chastened, but she had little time to admire the sight. They followed Natasha out of the hangar, down the familiar dreary corridors to their own room. "Don't worry," she said, placing a hand on Jemma's arm when she stepped toward the door. "My lists are guarantees."

"Should I feel bad that Natasha has basically promised to kill for me?" Jemma asked once the door had closed.

"Nat has her own ways of clearing her ledger." He placed their bags on the ground, and then laced his fingers through hers. "Fury might growl and snap, but you've bested him before. And if I have to choose between duty and you, I will choose you every time."

"Thank you." She lifted his left hand, kissing the skin above his wedding band. "Quite the mix of talents we have," she continued lightly. "Earthquakes, electricity, Steve's overwhelming sense of honor…"

"He could power a city with that."

"I'm sure Fitz could find a way." She gave him a tentative smile. "Not kicking me out of the bedroom this time, are you?"

The kiss he gave her at that made it very clear that his side of the bed would be occupied that night and for the foreseeable future. "I won't be leaving my wife."

She let her head rest against his shoulder, closing her eyes. "It is a good picture."

"We could frame a clean copy. One day we could be telling our grandchildren about that photo- 'and this is the shot we received from anonymous sources while we were in hiding'."

She huffed out a laugh, smiling despite herself. "As if they would believe us."

"Maybe not. Still."

"We're going to be okay?"

"We're going to be okay."


	2. with the doorknobs loose

Jemma escaped to the small lab on the lower level, which worked well enough until Fitz tracked her down. "Jem, I need your input on the device I'm working on," he said without preamble as he walked swiftly into the room. "And give me that ring you're wearing. Coulson cornered me; apparently marital stalking is _en vogue_."

"I thought you would be pleased to plant a tracker on him," she replied dryly, handing him her wedding ring with no small amount of reluctance. "I want that back as soon as possible."

"Oh, I get the point of it all, but it's still kind of weird."

"You try getting kidnapped, and then let me know how you feel about being findable by GPS." She pushed aside her notes, mildly annoyed by the interruption to her thought process. "How has it been, here?"

Fitz shrugged, but he looked nervous, and a small bandage lay near his hairline. "Eh, you know. Pretty much the same."

"I heard about the storage room."

"Yeah. Nearly lost a few of the DWARFs in that mess. Sleepy took a good knock, but I've put her back together." He ran a hand through his hair. "So… in case you didn't know…"

"Audrey's here?" She began fiddling with a nearby pen, casting her gaze down at the table. "I know."

"Good." There was a brief, awkward pause, and then, "She seems good. Settled. Whatever Dr. Banner has been doing, it's obviously helping."

"I'm glad." There was nothing for it. "Have you seen Skye? I would like to speak with her."

"Nah, not since breakfast. I think they're meditating somewhere."

Hiding in this small lab would just delay the inevitable. "I'm going for a walk, then. What was it you needed me to look at?"

He gave her an almost quizzical look, and then shook his head. "Find Skye first. You'll just be distracted until you get that done. I'll be in the other lab."

They walked together to the main level, and he gave her a brief wave as they parted. He seemed fine with her, at least, and Trip, when she passed him in the hall, smiled and greeted her easily and warmly. No hard feelings there, then.

She finally found Skye tucked away in one of the lesser used common rooms, and Jemma was not surprised to find that Audrey and Dr. Banner were with her. Unnerved, perhaps, but not surprised. The threesome stared at her for a moment, expressions ranging from Banner's polite smile to the uncertain look on Skye's face. Audrey hesitated, her mouth opening as if she were going to say something, before nodding a greeting.

"Hey, Jem," Skye said finally in an uncharacteristically reserved tone. "How was your vacation?"

Jemma felt a blush spread across her face in response to that. "Fine." She took a few steps further into the room, extending her hand to Bruce. "My name is Jemma Simmons. It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Banner."

Comprehension dawned. "Likewise, Dr. Simmons. I'm a big fan of your work."

She couldn't help but smile as they shook hands, pleased that a scientist of his caliber knew her reputation. "Thank you. I'm a fan of yours, as well."

Judging by the look on his face, he knew far more about her than he would have learned through his SHIELD contacts.

Well, he had been spending most of his time with Audrey, lately.

Oh dear.

"Congratulations." Audrey stood, the smile on her face tentative, but genuine. "I hope you're very happy."

Skye just gave her a confused look. Obviously Natasha had been selective when it came to whom she had shared the news with. "What happened?"

"Oh, Phil and I- we eloped." Jemma started to lift her hand, only to remember that Fitz had her ring. "I'm afraid we caused some trouble for Fury."

Bruce's only reaction to that was a faint smile, the kind that told Jemma he didn't mind the thought of someone annoying Fury. "Congratulations, Dr. Simmons. Agent Coulson is a lucky man."

Skye stood abruptly, an expression that Jemma couldn't quite interpret on her face. "Excuse me."

"She's very fond of Phil," Jemma said into the silence that followed Skye's exit. "Not in a romantic way, but…"

There was a sudden tremor under their feet. "I'm sorry for interrupting your session." The words spilled from Jemma's lips quickly. "Excuse me. I hope- this is very unfortunate, I'm so sorry."

She made a quick exit, instinctively walking away from Skye. Unfortunately, Skye had been heading in the direction of the main lab and the offices, and Jemma's chosen direction ran to the hangar and the storage rooms. After a few minutes of walking she found herself in a dusty room, feeling unbearably foolish.

"You seem to have the worst luck."

She looked up, startled, only to find Audrey standing in the doorway. "Oh. Hello. Did you want… this room?"

"I came to make sure you were all right." Audrey shrugged. "I realize that the ex-girlfriend might be the last person you want to speak with, but… after seeing the look on your face, I thought you needed to speak with _someone_."

"Ah." Jemma perched on the edge of an old desk, staring down at her lap. "After you left, a number of unfortunate things happened. Many of them happened to Skye."

"And to you."

She heard Audrey's footsteps echo quietly in the room, and when she looked up the other woman had seated herself in a hard wooden chair. "I know what happened to Skye," Audrey said. "What's the rest of the story?"

Jemma could feel doubt spread across her own face, and did her best to tamp it down. "It's unpleasant."

Audrey blushed slightly, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I'm not- I'm not asking because I want to see you suffer. I acted badly when I was last here, and I was certainly jealous, but- hell." She ran a hand through her hair. "I'm not explaining this well."

Jemma thought that this was a kindness, of sorts. "What happened to Skye happened because of me," she said finally, not wanting to get into the ugly details of the matter.

"How so?" Audrey gave her a questioning, almost incredulous stare. "You, personally, handed her off to her enemies?"

"It wasn't that simple."

"No, I didn't think so." Audrey leaned back in her chair, looking thoughtful. "But it's interesting how, when given the chance to explain, you automatically give a bare bones explanation that paints you in the worst light."

Jemma wasn't entirely sure if Audrey was somehow accusing her of playing the martyr, but it sounded rather like it. "It's a truthful explanation, though."

"From a certain perspective." Audrey plucked at the fold of material at her knee, frowning. "I am sorry about this. We were supposed to leave two days from now, before you returned."

"Our early return was entirely Steve's fault." Jemma stroked the skin where her wedding ring had rested, wishing she had just followed Fitz to the lab when he carried it off. "And what happened was- what happened with Skye, I mean- was that she very kindly offered herself in exchange for me."

Audrey said nothing at that, though she did stop fiddling with her pants leg.

"I let my guard down and ended up in the wrong hands. Skye saved me."

"That was very brave of her."

"She paid dearly for it." Jemma gave a tiny, self-conscious smile. "I'm afraid she rather regrets it, now."

"I have a feeling you've left out at least a half-a-dozen terrible things that are also weighing on your mind." Audrey stood, extending her hand. "Come on."

"Err… I'm fine here, thank you."

Not that Jemma didn't appreciate the gesture. She just wasn't entirely sure that she wouldn't be met with a shock.

"Sulking in a storage room is beneath you." Audrey grabbed Jemma's hand in one quick motion, pulling her off the table and tugging her out the door. "I won't make you sit down and talk it out with Skye, but I will deliver you to a safe location."

"That storage room seemed fairly safe."

"But lacking in things like food, water, and plumbing."

They were aiming for the kitchen, Jemma realized after a moment. She wasn't entirely sure what Audrey's plan was at that point, but she suspected that food would be involved. Had Phil picked up a penchant for feeding distressed people from her, or vise versa?

It was a moot point, in the end, because a short while later they rounded a corner and were no longer alone.

Phil gave them a long look, obviously trying to determine exactly what the story was behind their situation, but before he could ask Audrey cleared her throat and thrust Jemma forward. "Good. You'll know how to comfort her best."

They both stared after her as she hurried around the corner and out of sight. "What happened?" he asked, his hands light on her arms.

"Skye."

"Huh." He turned his head to look at her, seeming to shake off the oddness of the circumstances quickly. "Do I need to speak with Skye?"

"I'm sure she'll come looking for you, eventually. We should have held off on the wedding, until she could come… but she's probably more upset with me than you, so-"

"It's okay, Jem." He moved closer, wrapping her in a hug. "I'm glad we didn't wait."

"Me, too." A piece of paper wouldn't do a thing to really keep her safe- and apparently had made the situation even more dangerous, unfortunately- but even the word 'husband' was comforting. "I need to save my ring from Fitz," she said, her face pressed against his shoulder. "You looked like you were in a hurry."

"I was on my way to the lab. He took my ring, too." He nudged her along, keeping close.

"So you were walking in the opposite direction because…"

"Not sure, actually. It felt like the right direction to go. And it was, because here you are."

She didn't intend to argue with him about it, not when she was already on the edge, emotionally speaking. "Is Fury treating you badly?"

"Nick has written a veritable 'honey-do' list," he replied dryly. "I'm planning on delegating most of it."

"Like any good supervisor."

They walked smoothly together, she noticed. With his arm around her waist and the height difference, they should have been out of sync, but no- they fell into step. He shortened his stride slightly as she lengthened hers, and they met somewhere in the middle with minimal awkward bumping of hips. "And what will you be delegating to me?" she asked. "I could synthesize some kind of compound… or perhaps Fury would like Fitz and I to work on a new weapon."

"He probably would like that." He had managed to maneuver his thumb smoothly under the hem of her shirt, allowing it to simply rest against her bare skin. It was more distracting than she would have thought. The brush of him against her as they walked, the slight drag of callous against the smooth skin on the slope of her hip- tantalizing, and somehow sweetly agonizing, as well. "If you are feeling the inventing urge, please go ahead."

They had been close to the epicenter of the quakes, but the strength of the tremors diminished as they continued further along the halls. "It really might be best if I did leave," she said eventually, breaking the companionable quiet. "I don't want to, but if… I'm sure I could be doing useful work elsewhere."

He drew her into an empty office at that. "I don't know why you persist in devaluing yourself," he said, surprising her. His hands moved to cup her cheeks gently, thumbs stroking along the line of her cheekbones. "I'm saying this as your husband, and as someone who knows just how valuable you are as a member of this team: you are not less than Skye."

"Phil-"

"She's hurting and it kills me, Jemma, but we can't bend our lives around her. Powers don't automatically put her at the top."

"I know, but I don't want to be the source of contention." To her horror, tears were beginning to form at the corner of her eyes, and the heaviness in her throat signaled that a good cry was inevitable. "I don't want to be her trigger, Phil. She might get better without me here. Staying just means that I creep around the edges and hide in corners."

He was giving her an odd look, as if he were genuinely afraid of whatever solution was coalescing in her head. "And where are you planning on going?"

"I- I could always do what Natasha suggested."

The alarmed noise he made, deep in his throat, was unexpected. "Bad enough when she first came up with that plot. But now- _now_, Jem- you'd be a bartering piece. You wouldn't be able to play the soured soulbond, not with an actual marriage certificate in the system."

"I know, I know." She sniffed, dabbing the edge of her sleeve under one eye. "And I'm a terrible liar."

"Jem, I don't think _Nat_ could pull that off."

She held herself stiff when he tried to pull her closer. "I'll get mascara all over your shirt."

"Never bothered you before," he replied with a slight smile. "I think I've lost at least two to your mascara- though you wear them both to bed regularly, and admittedly you look better in them than I ever did."

"I'm just emotional because I'm experiencing a sudden upswing in testosterone," she explained tearily, giving in to the hug. "I don't know how men deal with this all the time."

"Oh, you know. Bluster and unnecessary violence, mainly."

"I want my ring back."

"Okay." He dug into his pockets, pulling out a crumpled packet of kleenex. "After we badger Fitz into handing over the goods, maybe we could go down to the gym. I'll demonstrate proper form for working with a punching bag."

The idea of hitting something was surprisingly appealing. "I'm going to take you up on that offer."

"Good."

* * *

Jemma was an enthusiastic student, which didn't surprise Phil in the least. This did mean that it was hard to tear her away from the gym once he decided that her overworked muscles needed the break. There was also the fact that seeing her in a sweat-dampened tank top and yoga pants, whaling on a punching bag, was enough to put him in a frisky mood.

"Rome was not built in a day, as the saying goes," he reminded her, looping his arm around her waist and pulling her gently along. "Tomorrow your arms are going to feel like limp spaghetti. Let's not make them worse."

He herded her into the shower once they reached their rooms, unable to keep his hands off of her as he did so. She was laughing, an amused expression on her face. "Phil, you know I'm on my menses."

"Barely started," he replied, checking the mental calendar in his head, but moved his hands to a more respectable location. "But you're right. Anything I can do?"

"Come to bed tonight." She met his gaze, now serious. "I know Fury has work for you, and I know that we _both_ have a tendency to get much too involved in our duties, but I don't want to fall asleep without you."

"I can do that." He began massaging shampoo into her scalp, smiling when she sighed and allowed her eyelids to flutter closed. "That heating pad should still be in your nightstand."

"Hmmm." She leaned lightly into his hands, a slight smile curving her lips. "That feels nice."

It was as they were dressing that she lost some of her short-lived lightheartedness. "Phil, you don't think that Steve might actually take it into his head to... "

"Stage a coup?" He shook his head. "I hope not. I don't want to get caught in the middle of that battle."

"Whose side would you choose?"

He considered that for a moment. From what he knew about Project Insight, he wasn't exactly feeling the utmost of trust in Fury, either… but Steve, while an excellent leader, was not cut out to be the director of an organization like SHIELD. It would crumble without someone like Fury at the helm, and Phil did still believe that SHIELD was necessary, as cracked and haphazard as the current version was.

"I'm not sure," he said finally. "I don't want to make that choice, honestly."

"I know." She shrugged. "On the one hand, my feelings for Fury are rather evident-"

She grinned at that. "-and Steve did interrupt our honeymoon, so…"

"That is a strike against him, I agree." He wrapped his arms around her from behind, nuzzling his nose against her neck. She smelled like his soap and her shampoo, and utterly, utterly delicious. "Are we going to brave dinner with the crew?"

"It isn't Fitz's night to cook, is it?"

"Fuck, I hope not." Brilliant though he was in a lab, Fitz had a tendency to set stoves on fire. Perhaps purposefully; Phil never had quite decided. "If it's dreadful I'll sneak out at midnight and get you a snack."

"Oh, I'm sneaking out with you, if that's the case." She turned in his arms, looking a tad anxious. "I really should come with you to dinner, shouldn't I?"

He understood her reticence, and it was so very Jemma to sacrifice herself for the comfort of others. That hardly seemed the wisest step, not now. "After long study I've determined that Jemmas need companionship and the love of their friends to truly thrive."

"Oh, you're an expert on all Jemmas now, are you?" she asked with an amused smirk.

"Just the best one." The shorter wisps of hair around her face were beginning to dry, drawing up into waves. "Awkward as the situation is, I do think you'll be happier if you face it head-on."

"I know."

"Besides, I'll be behind you, glaring threateningly at anyone who gives you hell." He gave her a teasing smile. "I might even shake my finger in censure."

"Terrifying," she replied with a laugh. "In that case, allons-y."

Nearly everyone was already in the kitchen when they arrived (and Trip was presiding over the stove, Phil was happy to see). After a careful count Phil realized the few holdouts: Skye, Clint, and Fury.

"She's in the vault," Natasha informed him quietly. "Talking to her father."

"Is this the first time she's ventured down there?"

"Yes." She smiled wryly. "I was attempting to wring some information out of him, and suddenly she comes marching downstairs and tells me to scram." She caught his horrified look. "More politely than that; I was paraphrasing."

"I admit I'm relieved."

"I wasn't getting anywhere, so I moved upstairs and watched the feed. She's been down there for three hours or so."

That explained Clint's disappearance. Natasha wouldn't have left the feed without someone else taking over for her, and she had likely only left to smooth the way for Jemma at dinner. "Anything interesting happen?"

"He talked, she glared. A couple of minor seismic shifts when he insisted on calling her Daisy." Natasha glanced at the table, tilting her head slightly toward Audrey and Bruce, who were discussing something quietly. "I think something's brewing there."

"Do you?" That would be an interesting pairing, and Phil's first reaction was that of relief. Not because he had believed that Audrey would never get over him- really, Phil considered himself quite lucky that she had ever given him the time of day at all- but for the simple reason that this would make things so much simpler. She deserved to be happy, and Bruce did as well. "They would suit each other."

"They would- and they both have experience with how shitty a soulbond can be, when it goes wrong." Natasha shrugged. "We'll let it be. If it happens, it happens."

She turned away from him, taking the last few steps to the table to claim the seat across from Jemma, leaving the one to Jemma's right open for him.

This was a smaller group than the one they had stormed the city with. Tony had returned to New York, taking Sam with him, and Thor had left to rejoin Dr. Foster in London. Phil had no doubt that they would all be returning to the Playground at some point, or that they would be meeting them elsewhere- which only reminded him that Pepper would doubtlessly be wishing to have words with him in the near future.

Assuming Tony had told her that Phil was still living, which was likely. The man could keep a secret, when necessary, but he rarely considered Pepper as someone he needed to keep a secret _from_.

Fury made no appearance during dinner, which was not a surprise. It was not until hours later, when they were back in their quarters and preparing to turn off the lights, that a knock sounded on their door.

Jemma, who was curled up in a ball around the heating pad, unwound herself with an irritable expression on her face. "Tell him midnight paperwork is not on the agenda." She settled herself against the pillows, arranging the pad against her abdomen before pulling the covers up to hide it. It was clear that she had no intention of actually getting up to greet their boss, for which he could hardly blame her.

Fury merely gave him a nod when he opened the door, glancing behind him briefly to give Jemma a similar nod of recognition. "A few minutes of your time, Phil."

After a second of consideration Phil stepped back, a silent invitation for Fury to enter. If he wanted to talk this late, Phil doubted that he would be willing to have the conversation in the open of the hall.

Fury glanced again at Jemma, then back at Phil, who shrugged in a manner that he hoped expressed his unwillingness to ask Jemma to leave the room. Fury seemed to read the message easily enough. A minute sigh was his only response to the silent dare. "I need you in North Carolina."

"When?"

"As soon as possible. One of contacts spotted Barnes wandering around Ocracoke, of all places, and once Rogers finds out I'll have to sit on him to keep him in place." Fury's aggrieved expression at that spoke volumes.

"So basically I'm on babysitting duty," Phil replied dryly. "Jemma, what are your feelings on a trip to the beach?"

"I've always wanted to track a brainwashed assassin in the dead of winter."

"Dr. Simmons is not a part of this mission," Fury interjected in a firm voice, and in response Jemma threw back the covers and dropped the pad to the floor before stomping over to them. That was the only descriptor that Phil could think of, as she made her way across the room, petite and angry in her leggings and oversized sweater. He peeked at Fury. He looked wary; good.

"And how do you intend for them to subdue Mr. Barnes?" she asked in a no-nonsense voice, not stopping until she was almost toe-to-toe with Fury. "Surely D.C. proved to you that even Steve would have a frightful time taking him down by force alone, at least not without seriously injuring the man _or_ being seriously injured himself. You need me for this mission, sir. And you need Fitz."

"I was planning on sending Banner."

"And while Dr. Banner is an excellent physicist and a skilled doctor, he is _not_ a biochemist. You know I have the training necessary for this job, sir."

"Yes. I also know that you are a distraction."

Phil briefly considered attacking Fury himself for that comment. "Imagine how _distracted_ I'll be if she isn't there," he said in as calm a voice as possible. "Jemma would be an asset to this mission, and I mean that in the most professional of ways."

Fury glanced back and forth between them, scowling. "Fine," he snapped. "You leave at 0600 hours. Don't be late."

Jemma was fuming with rage when Phil turned to her after closing and locking the door. "I'm a bloody _distraction?_ As if we're incapable of working together professionally without having sex up against the nearest surface."

"If that were the case, we would be dead a dozen times over, most likely." He started to stroke her hair, hoping to soothe her into a sleepy state. It was almost midnight as it was, and they would still have to pack in the morning. "Come to bed, sweetheart."

"I'm too angry to sleep," she grumbled, but crawled back into bed anyway, grabbing the pad as she did so. "Just once I would like for someone to assume that _you're_ the distraction, instead of reducing me to the woman who keeps you from your duties with my magical quim."

"I find every inch of you magical, but I get your point." He nudged her onto her stomach, making sure the heating pad was under her hips before beginning to massage her lower back. "Fury knows that you're right. Banner's brilliant, but he couldn't put together a potion to knock out a supersoldier half as well as you."

"Thank you."

"I think Fury just misses how much more malleable I was before I met you." He kissed the back of her neck. "Too bad for him."

She was quiet as he continued, sighing softly as he rubbed out the worst of the ache. "Maybe I am a distraction," she said eventually. "The soulbond rather demands it."

"It does, but you're less of a distraction and more of a lens that refocuses my attention on what's more important. I think you've made me better, Jemma. Less of a company man, for sure."

"You've made me better, too." She shifted slightly under his hands, her body language indicating approaching sleep. "And your hands are magic."

"Only for you, sweetheart."

* * *

They were an odd party, Jemma thought. One supersoldier, two scientists, and two operatives walk onto a plane… Jemma wasn't sure what the punchline would be, but she was fairly certain that it would involve an actual punch.

May, of course, had already been preparing the Bus for take-off when they arrived and stowed their belongings, and by the looks of things Steve had been pacing the main deck of the plane for hours, possibly since the night before.

Fitz gave her a grumpy look when they met. "'Oh, Fitz would _love_ to go chasing after the most dangerous man on the planet'," he said in falsetto once they were alone in the lab. "'Go knock on his door at one in the morning; he'll be so happy'."

"One, I do _not_ sound like that, and two, I never told Fury that you would be happy about it. I just said that you were the best choice for the job." She was still mildly disgruntled by the whole affair, though a few hours of heavy sleep and some paracetamol had taken off the worst of the edge. "Unless you can think of another genius engineer on base."

"'Course I'm the best choice," he said immediately. Fitz wasn't exactly the model of humility, which Jemma generally found charming. "Especially since Dr. Banner is all tied up in keeping Skye balanced."

There had not been time for Jemma to try speaking with Skye again, and perhaps that was for the best. A part of her felt a kind of a guilty relief at being able to postpone the conversation. "Besides, it's not as if we'll be the ones taking him down. We provide the means and let Steve take care of the actual capture." She looked around them, making a mental inventory of everything at their disposal. "Let's brainstorm."

By the time Fitz dragged her upstairs for food- his stomach generally was more insistent than hers, especially when she was caught up in work- they had come up with several options for the collecting and keeping of supersoldiers. When Steve walked into the kitchen halfway through their meal, Fitz immediately began interrogating him on Barnes' speed and level of strength, and it quickly became clear to Jemma- though not, perhaps, Steve- that Fitz was planning on using Captain America as a guinea pig for whatever restraints he came up with. Jemma did not think that she would be getting a chance to test the new sedative she was considering on him, which was a small disappointment.

The flight to their destination was not a particularly long one. By nightfall of the same day May had landed the Bus in a remote clearing near the coast, far enough from civilization that the cloaking device would likely be enough to keep them from prying eyes. "We'll have to split up, if we go out into public," she noted when they had all gathered in the briefing room. "Two women and three men wandering around off-season would look suspicious."

"True enough. Jemma, are you interested in taking a drive?" Phil asked. "Bit too cold for Lola, unfortunately."

It was a blustery, frigid day, so that was quite the understatement. "It wouldn't hurt to pick up some groceries and take a look around," she agreed. Two would definitely be less conspicuous than five, and if they played up the honeymooner angle they could get away with it. "Let me grab my coat."

Between the gray sky and gray sea, their surroundings were not exactly cheery as they made the drive to town. "It is probably lovely in the summer," she said as they drove past a stand of bare trees. "I'm having difficulty believing that Barnes chose here, though. You would think that he would hide in a larger city."

"I know." Phil looked a little glum as he stopped for a light. "We might be spinning our wheels."

There were a number of small cottages built along the coastline, though to Jemma's eyes they looked empty and abandoned. Summer residences, she guessed. Rented out to tourists during the nicer months after a good airing out, and after being swept free of spiderwebs and the sand that managed to slip through the cracks. Probably too drafty for winter use.

Her suspicions on that score were confirmed in the small grocers they found near the middle of town. Phil had driven past the larger store on the outskirts of the city, where they might have been relatively anonymous but would have missed out on local gossip. This place looked more like a family business, and the resemblance between the two women behind the counter strengthened the theory. "Cold enough for you?" one asked as she began to ring up their items, the selection chosen as if they really were just feeding two people. The woman gave them a friendly grin. "We don't see many tourists, this time of the year."

"I promised my wife a vacation before tax season really got going," Phil replied easily. "Once we get home she won't see me until after April 15, probably."

"Silly me for letting him pick the destination." Jemma shook her head, giving him a mock-scolding look.

"We had our honeymoon here," he explained to the cashier. "I thought it would be romantic."

"In January?" she said with a laugh, exchanging a look with Jemma that clearly read _men, am I right?_ "Bless your heart. You aren't staying in one of those freezing cottages, are you?"

"Yes," Jemma replied, allowing a slightly sour note to seep into her voice. "It has a fireplace, at least."

"Well, if you run low on wood, give Frank a call." The cashier handed her a business card. "He won't overcharge you, and he won't try to slip green wood into the pile, either."

"That is very kind, thank you." Jemma tucked the card away. feeling as if she had a good handle on the situation- or at least a good enough handle that she wouldn't start making wild accusations about prostitutes. "Those cottages were not built for winter, unfortunately!"

"No, they weren't. I don't know how that writer is holding up in his." The cashier shook her head. "I know for a fact that he doesn't have a fireplace, poor lamb."

"Anyone we would know?" Phil asked in casual interest, taking the bag in his arms.

"Don't think so. He's got that tortured artist look, all stubble and dark eyes." The woman- who looked to be in her thirties- suddenly blushed. "Polite, though. Fond of poptarts."

The conversation went nowhere after that, but Jemma knew they had struck gold- and judging by the expression on Phil's face once they were safely in the car, he knew it too. "We might have gotten lucky, sweetheart."

"Don't jinx us, Phil," she replied, but felt the same excitement.

"Knock on wood, then."


	3. all the unpaid bills

As a boy, one of Phil's favorite games of make-believe had been skulking through the underbrush of his backyard, pretending that he was a member of the Howling Commandos on the trail of Nazi war criminals. He had related that memory to Jemma once, who had laughed and asked him if Peggy Carter ever came along on those escapades, only to laugh harder when he had admitted that he had never really thought about Peggy until later in his life, when make-believe had taken a rather less innocent turn.

And hell, had those memories been embarrassing the first few times he had actually met Director Carter in the flesh. She had a way of looking at Phil as if she could actually read his mind; he was fairly sure that he had blushed the entire time.

"Phil, are you telling me that you wanked to thoughts of Peggy Carter?" Jemma had asked, sporting a wicked grin. "Teenage Phil Coulson alone in his bedroom… thinking about British badass bombshells…"

"I had a type even then," he had replied with a slight smile. "Have mercy on me, Jem. The way she was drawn in the comic books-"

She had given him a mock pout, sketching exaggerated curves over her own more modest ones. "A bit of a sex kitten, was she?"

"Teenage boys are horny monsters, Jemma."

"Hmmm."

Jemma was a terrible actress in public, but the way she could shift demeanors on a dime in private was fascinating. She had fluttered her eyelashes at him before pulling the dress she had been wearing off over her head. "However can I repay you for rescuing me from those scary soldiers?" Breathier than her usual tone, red lace under the dress, and oh fuck he had definitely had this fantasy before. "Surely you would like a little… reward."

That had been a marvelous night.

Now… now, however, he was hiding in beach grass next to Captain America, binoculars trained on a seemingly empty beach house, and a part of his mind was frantically babbling _you jerked off to a fictionalized version of one of his soulmates you unmitigated creep._

It was freezing, but that felt appropriate, given his mood. "Three hours and he hasn't moved," he muttered quietly, adjusting the binoculars slightly. They were fitted with heat sensing lenses, so there was no question that someone was, indeed, inside… just a very still someone. "Not even the twitch of a muscle, Steve."

"He knows." Steve shifted slightly, as if he were about to rise to his feet, before settling. "Shit, Bucky, what game is this?"

As if he had heard Steve's voice, the bright figure inside stood, turned- and then walked to the door.

"A bit cold, don't you think?" the man asked, and for a moment Phil actually felt his brain shorting out.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he groaned, dragging himself to his feet. "You are _dead_."

"Looked like a cool club. Thought I'd join." Jasper Sitwell leaned against the doorframe, almost unrecognizable in the dim, pre-dawn light. A baseball cap was snugged down over what looked to be hair- a wig, Phil was guessing- and like the cashier had said, he was wearing some impressive stubble on his chin and cheeks.

Steve was standing, now, an incredulous expression on his face. "You were a smear on the pavement."

"Oh, I remember." Jasper considered that briefly. "Not the actual smear part. But the before and after, yeah."

"Bucky pulled you from a moving car."

"I thought that was rude." Jasper glanced toward Phil. "Don't you think, Phil? And by the way- Tahiti, not so magical."

"Yeah, I really oversold that," Phil replied slowly. "Are you-"

"Hydra? Nah. Never was. I make a great patsy, remember? A pity Captain Rogers didn't get that memo, otherwise he never would have let Romanov toss me off a fucking roof."

"We don't have any proof that you were working for SHIELD," Steve countered, and Jasper shrugged easily.

"SHIELD, Hydra- kind of the same thing, for a while there. I would appreciate it if you wait until _after_ you verify my claim to toss me off another roof. Call Hill; she'll back me up." Jasper walked further out onto the small porch. "So, care to put a fellow zombie up for the night? My accommodations, though charming, leave a lot to be desired."

Phil didn't need to look over at Steve to know that he was glaring at everyone in general. "Jemma would never forgive me if I didn't bring you in long enough for her to get a few blood samples."

Jasper- who had been on his way down the steps- stopped abruptly. "No. Phil."

"Price of admission, Jasper."

"The woman _shot me_ in the _chest_."

Steve looked interested at that. "Really? I heard about the time she attacked Fury-"

"_Phil,_ what kind of hell-beast are you bonded to?"

"Hey," Phil cut in sharply. "My lovely wife has a gentle soul."

Jasper sighed, looking resigned. "You married her. You idiot."

"Don't make me punch you, Jasper."

* * *

Jemma was unnerved to see that Steve, on first entering the Bus, was once more giving her that look of careful examination, as if he were expecting her to vault over Lola and knock him to the ground.

Seeing Jasper Sitwell enter behind him gave that look context, and the burn on her cheeks told her that she was blushing fiercely.

"Oh look," Fitz murmured beside her. "A former superior officer, whom you violently assaulted."

The entire escapade- especially the moment when she had been forced to run and beg for May's help like an errant schoolgirl- ranked low on Jemma's hierarchy of memories on the Bus. The expression of tired disapproval Phil had given her after the fact hadn't helped, though when she had snuck up to his room in the wee hours of the morning he had wrapped himself around her more tightly than ever before, his breath ruffling her hair.

"A former turncoat who is supposed to be dead," she hissed in reply, stifling her automatic moan when Steve's lips twitched. Even all the way across the bay, he had heard that little quip.

"Jemma, bust out your best set of needles," Phil said calmly as he followed the other two up the ramp. "Jasper here would be thrilled to donate a sample of his blood for analysis."

She couldn't deny that the thought sparked her scientific curiosity. "You always give the best presents," she replied, kissing him on the cheek once he reached her. "Thank you, Phil."

"I'm not that thrilled." Jasper said the words in a mutinous tone, but took a seat on a stool when she pointed at it. "I hope you're better at finding a vein than the last nurse I had."

"I'm an excellent phlebotomist, thank you."

Jasper winced as she slid in the needle, but looked resolutely away from her and focused on the others. "How did you find me, exactly?"

"We actually didn't come looking for you." Phil quirked a small smile. "We were sent to find the Winter Soldier."

Jasper huffed a dry laugh. "Me? The Winter Soldier? I'm not sure whether to be flattered or suggest that your spies need an eye exam."

"The latter," Steve said grimly. "What's your story, Sitwell? You should be in pieces."

"Your buddy tossed me over the highway and onto the shoulder of the road." Jasper shrugged one shoulder. "Probably broke every bone in my body- I don't have any memories of that part. I woke up in a lab a few weeks later."

"SHIELD?" Phil asked, leaning against a nearby counter.

"Judging by the skull-and-octopus-arms on the wall and lab coats, no. Apparently I am such a good patsy that Hydra decided to use me as a guinea pig for their own resurrection process." Jasper relaxed slightly as she smoothed a small bandage over the puncture site. "They didn't have a clue that I was SHIELD, thankfully. I considered sticking around, gathering some more info, but the medical tests they were doing kept getting more invasive, so I decided to hit the road before an autopsy was added to the list."

"Do you know how they brought you back?" Jemma asked.

"No clue. They weren't forthcoming on that, when I asked." Jasper glanced around the lab, then at the small group surrounding him. "Please tell me you didn't really think that a group of just five could subdue the Winter Soldier."

"It was very nearly a group of four." Phil shot her a sly look, his amusement barely hidden. "Jemma convinced Fury to rethink the matter."

"Of course she-"

Jasper stopped mid-sentence. "Fury's alive?"

He received only Phil's blandest expression in reply. "That fucking bastard." He turned to look at Jemma. "You really attacked Fury? Really?"

Jemma wasn't entirely sure how had she gone from avoiding bad-girl shenanigans to arguing with Nicholas Fury and receiving wary looks from men who could pound her into the ground with one blow, if they were minded to, but she was growing used to the change.

Poor Steve looked rather as if his own dreams had been ground to dust. "So now we start all over." He rubbed a hand over his face wearily. "He could be anywhere."

"True, but now we're a group of six," May said, the barest hint of amusement in her voice.

Jasper straightened in alarm. "I did not volunteer for this."

"No, you're being conscripted," Phil replied smoothly. "At least until we're back at the base. Don't worry, we'll do our best to keep you off the highway."

"Phil-"

"What, you'd rather be hiding from Hydra in a freezing cottage?"

"You're just a jerk, sometimes."

Jemma frowned at that, but supposed he had a point.

"Well," Jasper continued, his tone slightly acidic, "where to?"

They all considered each other for a moment, and it was May, surprisingly, who sighed and spoke first. "Let me make a call."

Jemma was interested to note that Phil looked vaguely uneasy at those words, as did Jasper. "I suppose that is an option," Phil replied cautiously.

"I won't make any promises, Phil," May said as she began to climb the stairs, the words sounding almost ominous.

Steve glanced back and forth between Phil and Jasper, his gaze suspicious. "Who, exactly, is May calling?"

Phil hesitated briefly before answering, and while his words were otherwise unexceptional, his tone served as warning enough. "Her mother."

* * *

As Phil had expected, May's mother was perfectly willing to help them… for a price.

"A sample of his blood, once we catch him," May said after an extensive conversation via a sat phone. "I told her we would consider it."

"He's not a lab rat," Steve said immediately, his expression stubborn.

"Just one vial." May shrugged slightly. "Very reasonable, for my mother."

"And what does she intend to do with it?"

"I didn't ask."

Phil wasn't sure he wanted to know. He trusted May's mother, up to a point, but she was always playing a very complex game behind the scenes, even when she was being helpful. He didn't think that she would use the sample for anything dangerous, but he wasn't willing to swear to it, either. "What's your read on her motives, May?"

"I think she wants an edge," May replied simply, and that did make sense. May's mother was too cunning, too careful, to allow an advantage slip by. Her own cadre of loyal scientists would unlock any secrets in that blood sample, and then she would tuck the knowledge away as yet another ace up her sleeve.

"I'm for it," Phil said after considering the idea further. "Steve?"

"I don't like it, but you aren't leaving me much of a choice, here." He sighed. "She's as good as you say?"

"None better," Phil confirmed, and the expression of reluctant admiration on Jasper's face backed him up.

"Fine. One vial, though. Just the one." Steve turned and left the room, irritation evident in his quick walk.

"I'll let her know that we've accepted her terms." May paused, giving Jasper a significant look until he rolled his eyes and left the room. Only once the two of them were alone did she continue. "She's going to try and recruit Fitzsimmons."

"Is that a guess or a certainty?"

"She's mentioned them a few times in passing. You might have had their records wiped, but you know her." He was skilled in reading May, and she looked both amused and chagrined under her typical reserve. "She said that she hoped you were treating Simmons well."

"Tell your mother that my wife is very happy." He adjusted his tie, almost insulted by the implication. "You aren't upset that we ran off and eloped, are you?"

"No, but my mother might be. You know she's always liked you." She glanced toward the door, and when she looked back a small, but true, smile was on her face. "Watching Rogers and Fury dance around Simmons is one of the most amusing things I've seen in years."

Phil rather enjoyed the sight, as well. "Will you help me train her?"

"I don't think she needs advice on how to terrify grown men with a look."

"No, but I'd like her to be able to drop one with a punch, as well." He met her gaze, utterly serious. "I can't tell her how to work with the height and frame she was born with. She's small- she has advantages other than strength."

"I can do that." May leaned against the wall, looking thoughtful. "What are you going to do about Skye, Phil?"

"She's holding a grudge against Jemma," he said flatly. "She might not be meaning to, or see it that way, but she is."

"I'm not denying it."

"I put Jemma aside to spare someone's feelings once, and it was a terrible mistake. I won't do it again." He was on the verge of arguing, though he had a feeling that a fight wasn't May's intent. "This is why I stepped aside when Fury came back, May. I'm too tired to take on the world by myself."

"I'm not asking you to." She tilted her head slightly to the side. "I'm glad you took what I said to heart."

All those months ago, when Skye had been in her coma and he had almost let Jemma run herself ragged- _you can't go alone on this_. "Jemma is my heart."

The look she gave him was somewhat withering. "No need to be a sap, Phil."

"Tell your mother to keep her hands off my scientists, then."

"As if I've ever been able to control my mother." She left his office with her usual determined stride, shaking her head.

Phil was fairly sure that neither Jemma nor Fitz would accept the offer, though he wasn't one hundred percent positive. May's mother had the cash to buy some very serious equipment, and it wasn't as if SHIELD could offer them top of the line, at the moment. Jemma would most likely refuse simply because he still worked for SHIELD (though the May matriarch would realize that, and what she would offer _him_ to switch allegiances he could only imagine), and if Jemma stayed, Fitz would probably stay. So it was unlikely that she would accomplish much of anything.

Probably.

"You aren't feeling the urge to defect, are you?" he asked Jemma when he next saw her alone. She had made her way up to his office after lunch, looking a little sleepy. "This isn't a random question, unfortunately."

"I hadn't considered it." She sat on the couch, kicking off her shoes. "Why, is it on your agenda?"

"No. May's mother might make you an offer."

Her expression was amused as she considered him. "The idea terrifies you, I can tell."

"Think Natasha in forty years, with added ruthlessness and absolutely devoted servitors awaiting her every whim."

"How's the retirement plan?"

He tried not to shudder. "Excellent, provided you make it to that point."

"Hmm." She drew her legs up onto the couch, curling up into the corner. "No, I think I'll stay with SHIELD as a wanted criminal."

"Thank you." He had a very strongly worded communique intended for Fury waiting for its final touches, but he had a hunch that leaving it for a bit and coming back with a fresh mind would be the wiser course. "Because I would have to follow you, if you decided to leave." He sat next to her, pulling her feet into his lap and ridding her of her socks. "You look tense."

"Oh, had a spat with Fitz about the best vehicle for my new paralysis serum." She sighed, wriggling deeper into the cushions as he began to massage one of her feet. "Hell, that feels good. Don't stop."

"You haven't stopped to sit down for hours, have you?" He considered her face, noting the pinched look of strain she wore. "What happened with Fitz?"

"Oh, he's hung up on using the DWARFs to deliver the serum, should we ever find Mr. Barnes. Says that it would be safer, but I think he just finds the idea thrilling." She shook her head. "I think it far more likely that our target would just swat Grumpy out of the sky and shatter the poor thing, and then I'll have to spend a week listening to Fitz whinge."

"I think you're probably right."

"Besides, the weight of the serum would slow the DWARFs down. The only effective way of delivering it would be with the propulsion only a gun could provide." She frowned at that. "But when I told Captain Rogers, he gave me this horrified look and said that he didn't want to shoot him. Does he seriously expect that the Winter Soldier is just going to let us inject him with a paralytic? My serum isn't fatal, for goodness sake, it will just give us time to secure the man."

"I think he still sees Barnes as his friend, previous experience aside."

"Yes." Jemma was silent for a few moments, her eyelids slipping closed as he continued his work. "And I've run a few tests on Sitwell's blood."

"Anything interesting?"

"He's definitely been exposed to the GH325- or some variant of it, anyway. His blood doesn't show the same markers I found in yours, or in Skye's. It's almost as if he was injected with a manufactured version."

That was not good news, not at all. "So it's entirely possible that Hydra has managed to create their own formula for the stuff?"

"I'm afraid so. It's genius, really. If they weren't evil bastards I would be applauding."

"I don't mind you appreciating excellent craftsmanship, sweetheart." He gave her a teasing grin, stroking the arch of one foot lightly. "Don't feel guilty about that."

"The knowledge of how many human subjects they went through before they found the right formula dampens my enthusiasm." She sighed, her eyes closing again- and then opened them abruptly when the Bus' engines began to rumble. "Do we have a lead?"

"Not that I know of." Placing her feet to the side, he moved to the intercom. "May?"

"Buckle up. I'll explain after we're in the air," May told him tersely over the line. "We have a problem."

The problem, they learned some twenty minutes later, was not an entirely unexpected one, though certainly unwelcome.

"Someone was paying attention," May said, pulling up the local news channel on the screen in the briefing room. Phil saw with sinking dread that the perky blonde newscaster was discussing in bubbly tones the appearance of two wanted criminals in the Ocracoke area- and the grainy footage she was narrating over was of himself and Jemma in the small grocery store.

"I thought they looked shifty," the cashier who had helped them told the interviewer seriously. "And they wanted to know about that poor writer who was staying in the area. I bet they were with the Mob."

Jasper snickered at that, his laughter more pronounced when the newscaster informed her unseen audience that the writer in question had disappeared, and that the police were investigating foul play due to signs of a struggle at his rented residence.

"There was no struggle," Phil said indignantly. "This isn't funny, Jasper."

"We've got an APB labelling the two of you armed and dangerous. I think that's pretty funny."

Jemma was frowning beside him, and though she was striving to look professional Phil could see the hint of panic in her eyes. "Is this only on the local news?"

"For now," May replied. "It's been a slow news day, so the channels in the Triangle might pick it up. Fury already knows."

"Of course he does." Phil considered his teammates. "Well, this means Jemma and I won't be doing reconnaissance in the near future. Fitz, next time we have a lead I'm sending you out with May."

"Me?" Fitz asked, horrified. "Won't that look suspicious?"

May was also giving Phil a look, though hers had nothing to do with horror and everything to do with her disdain at undercover work. "A better choice than sending out Rogers," she admitted in a begrudging tone. "Fitz, come with me. We'll figure out a cover."

"What kind of possible cover could we have?"

"We'll figure out our mark words and go from there."

"_What?_"

Jemma looked somewhat amused by Fitz's obvious panic as he followed May out of the room. "Poor Fitz," she said softly, drumming her fingers on the table. "What are we going to do, Phil?"

"Don't worry too much," Jasper interjected. "It isn't as if anyone knows your face beyond whatever report got you noticed."

His tone was dismissive, as if he thought Jemma were worrying over nothing- but then, he had missed the whole to-do with Ward and his bidders. Even Steve, who only knew the barest of details about that threat, was frowning at Jasper. "The situation is more serious than you know," he said.

"What, they'll take away her Nobel candidacy?" Jasper responded flippantly. "Any hopes at winning prizes for good behavior went down the drain when SHIELD fell, Simmons."

Jemma replied before Phil could snap out a cutting remark. "Thank you," she said in a cool voice. "I never would have guessed, otherwise." She left, looking straight ahead as she disappeared down the corridor. She was going in the direction of the lab, but Phil had a feeling that she would be finding a private corner to catch her breath in somewhere along the way.

Jasper watched her go, his gaze considering. "Okay, I screwed up, didn't I?"

"The world didn't stop for us while you were in hiding," Phil replied tersely. "Jemma doesn't need any more exposure than she's already gotten."

"Point made, Phil." Jasper ran a hand over the stubble on his face, grimacing. "I need to get rid of this. I'll apologize next time I see her."

A small gesture, but a kind one, nonetheless. Phil's cell rang before he could make his way after Jemma, and before he even drew the phone out of his pocket he knew exactly who was calling.

"Hello, Nick," he said, silencing his sigh. "Yes, I have seen the news. Stop yelling."

* * *

It was May who tracked her down, finding her in an out of the way nook almost an hour later and pulling her into the bay. Mats had already been laid out on the floor, and Jemma knew with tired certainty exactly how this was going to play out.

"Try again," May said twenty minutes later, when Jemma found herself on her back for the third time. "If you're afraid of hurting me, put that out of your mind. I doubt you can."

"Maybe I just don't have the strength," Jemma replied. "And if I can't throw you to the ground, I'm lost against a larger opponent."

"You have the strength. This is physics, Simmons. Let science do the work for you."

Logically Jemma knew that May was correct. She could even calculate why the move _should_ work, but the moment May locked her arms around Jemma's midsection she froze, every time. "Can't I just run away?"

"When possible, yes. But most people won't do you the favor of attacking in a broad space. They'll corner you, or they'll attack in a room like this." May inclined her head toward the rest of the bay, her gesture including the metal stairs, the catwalk, and the vehicles that impeded a quick escape. "You can't just bolt like a rabbit. Let's try again."

By the time May let her leave, Jemma ached in every part of her body and her blouse had a rip under one arm. Fitz had watched most of the ordeal from the safety of the lab, and he gave her a commiseratory grimace when she caught his gaze. "Try her with a fire extinguisher," he called out. "She can really pack a wallop with those."

Jemma was fairly certain that May was hiding a smile. "She can't expect that every room she finds herself trapped in will be up to code," was all May said as she ascended the staircase. "But I'll keep that in mind."

"I had good reason to smack you with that," Jemma grumbled after May had left, inspecting the ripped seam as best she could without a mirror. "I should bloody well do it again."

"Have pity on me, Jem. May's threatening to scribble a fake mark under my chin."

"I hope it's obvious and obnoxious."

Phil gave her a long look when she entered his office, his gaze lingering on the patch of skin showing under her arm. "May didn't let you change?"

"She said I should get used to moving in my regular clothing." Jemma began to dig through her bag, pulling out loose, comfortable pieces to change into after her shower. "I rather liked this blouse."

"Do you need anything?"

They were both carefully avoiding the topic at hand, though she could tell that he was being circumspect out of deference to her. "Maybe a hug."

He was up and had his arms around her in seconds. "Back when I still sparred with May she knocked me on my ass four times out of five," he offered as he rubbed her back. She felt rather bad about the situation, because he was pulled together so nicely and she was disheveled and covered in sweat, but he didn't seem to care.

"I don't know why she decided to take me to the mats in the first place," she mumbled against his chest, and the way he shifted slightly gave her a clue. "Oh, Phil. You didn't."

"You need more self-defense training," he said immediately, sounding as if he had rehearsed the line. "I was planning on asking you, but May got to you first."

"Ugh. Fine." He was right, and she was too tired to argue. "I'll let May throw me around the room on a daily basis."

"Thank you, sweetheart." The way he said the words told her that he sincerely meant them. "When you're ready you can use me as a training dummy."

The idea of grappling with Phil on the mats was a bit of a turn-on, in all honesty. "You're willing to get a collection of bruises for me? How sweet."

"If you can pin me I'll let you do whatever you want to me," he promised, his hands dipping low to curve over her arse. She pressed closer for a brief moment before breaking away with a sigh. Stupid menses, always getting in the way of her fun.

"You would let me do that anyway," she said with a soft smile, collecting her things again and heading toward the shower. "Wouldn't you, Phil?"

"Admittedly, yes."

"What a lovely man you are."

* * *

May's mother sent them footage from several traffic cameras in Boston, and to Boston they went, where May left the Bus with a slightly terrified looking Fitz trailing after her.

"Oh, Fitz," Jemma said with a sigh as she watched them leave. "He'll never convince anyone, at this rate."

Phil shared the same fear, but May must have given the man some kind of pep talk on the drive into town, because when the cameras embedded in the glasses the pair wore were engaged, May's view briefly showed a much calmer Fitz walking along beside her.

The footage they had received of the man who might or might not be Barnes had come from one particular part of the city, one which was still a little run down, but was gentrifying quickly.

"It's such a beautiful neighborhood," May was saying, her voice so uncharacteristically bright that it set Phil on edge. "We knew that we wanted to settle in Boston, didn't we, darling?"

There was only the briefest of pauses before Fitz replied, his "Definitely" barely passing muster. He did, however, have a very good American accent. Phil had to give him points for that.

The realtor chattered about property values and marble countertops as she showed them around the apartment. Phil was forced to re-evaluate his review of Fitz's acting skills at one point, when May said that the small second bedroom would be perfect for a nursery and the Scot didn't even skip a beat before confirming.

"Oh, God," Jasper muttered on the other side of the holo-table, his eyes wide.

"They would probably have very attractive children," Jemma mused, almost as if to herself, and then blinked in surprise when everyone turned to stare at her. "What? It's a simple fact."

"You have a scary mind," Jasper informed her seriously.

It was as Fitz and May were strolling down the icy sidewalk that a promising suspect walked out of one of the older apartment buildings, one that verged on almost seedy. Steve straightened, peering intently at the footage. "That's Bucky."

"We've only seen a handful of frames-"

"No, that's Bucky." There was no doubt in Steve's mind, obviously, though Phil himself was feeling plenty of doubt. "I'll go and get him tonight."

Said as if Steve were just running down to the corner store for some milk. "Even at the dodgy end of the neighborhood people will notice if Captain America starts causing a row," Jemma pointed out. "He won't go without a fight."

"I'll use your weapon," he replied through gritted teeth. "Tonight."

Phil exchanged a glanced with Jemma, who gave him a worried shrug. He knew that Fitz eventually had come around to her line of thinking, but last he had heard Fitz was still fine-tuning the gun in question. "It wouldn't hurt to survey the neighborhood for another day," he said, eyeing the new feeds that were popping up as May casually planted the small cameras Fitz had created for just this kind of mission. "See if he has a pattern."

"He won't have a pattern," Jasper said unexpectedly. "You're stalling, Phil."

Some help he was. "I'm being cautious. There is a difference."

"He won't have a pattern, but his neighbors might," Jemma said, pointing the pen she held at the images. "And it's a Saturday. People will be up later than usual, perhaps even walking home late from evenings out. We'd be safer waiting for Sunday night, when most will be tucked into bed at a reasonable hour."

It was the look of begrudging acceptance on Steve's face that told Phil surveillance was a go for another twenty-four hours or so. "We'll have to move quickly, though. There will be noise, and the police will be called."

"Who's going to arrest Captain America?" Steve asked with a wry smile. "Not the Boston PD, I bet."

"No, but if you talk with them, soon everyone and their mother will know that Barnes is in our custody." Phil resisted the urge to rub at his forehead. It wouldn't help with his headache, anyway. "Rumlow is a big enough problem as it is; I would prefer if he didn't have an actual reason to focus his sights on us. Let him run around chasing his own tail for as long as possible."

"Fine." Steve sighed in resignation. "Fine."

"I just hope the cell on board will hold him," Jasper said, leading to Jemma giving Phil a questioning look.

"It held an Asgardian." Phil shrugged, feeling completely done with this insane mission. "It's the best we have."

"That's very reassuring."

Reaching out and smacking the man on the head would be childish and not at all professional. "Thank you for your input, Jasper."

"You're welcome."

May's laughter trilled across the comms, and everyone winced in some kind of Pavlovian response.

"I'd better double-check my formula, then," Jemma said quietly, giving his hand a quick squeeze before leaving the room.

"She isn't going to test it on me, is she?" Jasper asked seriously.

"Doubtful." Phil took a beat, then continued. "It was engineered for super soldiers, after all."

The scolding frown Steve gave him for that was its own reward.


	4. and the pipes that burst

"I can hear him pacing," Jemma muttered against her pillow, wriggling further under the covers. "How does he walk so loudly?"

It was a good question. Technically they were taking shifts on surveillance. This stretch should have been just May and Jasper, but Steve seemed intent on keeping watch every single minute. "This could be a good time to test your serum, sweetheart."

"If I weren't worried about accidentally knocking him out for too long time, I would." She sighed, now so deep under the covers that she had her head resting on his stomach. "I can still hear him."

"You're going to suffocate." He flipped the covers back, meeting her gaze as best he could in the dim room. She looked antsy; she felt tense. "Come here."

Maybe it was the soulbond, maybe it was just what she saw in him, but it still amazed him how willingly she placed herself in his care when she was anxious- just as she did now, crawling back up the bed to rest in his arms. "He still makes me nervous," she confided in a soft murmur. "He's just so… big."

"Good thing I never achieved my true potential," he teased lightly, slipping his fingers through her hair. "You scare the hell out of him, Jemma."

"Because my reputation is wildly exaggerated."

Grumpy Jemma was adorable. Not that he would ever tell her, at least in the moment. "No, well-deserved."

"It was a moment of temporary insanity." She paused. "Both times."

"A true act of bravery, both times." He smiled against her hair, remembering when May had told him about helping Jemma hide Jasper's unconscious body in a closet. At the time he had been too worried about Fitz and Ward (hell, worried about _Ward_) to appreciate how phenomenal her actions had been. "Next time you do something like that, don't run off."

"Planning on yelling at me, Phil?"

"More like planning on rendering you speechless." He snugged his arms tighter around her, pleased by the way her breathing quickened. "Bravery should be rewarded, after all."

"I do like the sound of that," she admitted. "Though knowing you, you'll wait until I'm akin to a puddle… and then yell at me."

"I think you mean 'beg in a stern manner'."

"That does sound about right." She slipped one hand under his t-shirt as he adjusted the covers around them once more, her palm coming to rest above his heart. Her hand was slightly chilled, and he suspected that if she hadn't been wearing socks her cold feet would have been tucked between his calves. "All about how me playing white knight is incredibly arousing, and will I please never, ever do anything like that again."

"Right on point."

"Aren't you worried that rewarding my recklessness might just encourage more recklessness?" she asked, a wicked lilt to her voice. "I might go jumping out of planes on a weekly basis, if you do too good a job."

And he would most likely tumble her into bed every time- or let her tumble him, because that particular view was always so very nice. "Have pity on my heart, Jemma. One miraculous resurrection is my limit."

"Yes, I'll be taking very good care of your heart." Her voice had softened, and the hand on his chest had begun to warm. "My jazz man."

She was so quiet for a few moments after that he thought she might be settling down to sleep, and then-

"He's still pacing," she said in an aggrieved tone.

"We could always chase him into hiding by pretending to have loud sex." He smiled when she snorted a laugh. "He would probably be the only one to hear. We could jump on the bed and everything."

"And break it." She was still giggling, and had rolled away to rest on her back. "We would probably snap a vital part, and then wouldn't be able to fold it back up again. Imagine how professional that would make your office look."

"Imagine how loudly Fury would yell at me for breaking his plane," he retorted with a grin. "Just think how mad he would be if he thought that we damaged SHIELD property by having crazy monkey sex."

"Is that how he would phrase it?"

The question made him smirk. "His version would probably be more profane."

"'Stop fucking your fucking wife in my fucking plane'," she said in an absolutely terrible, albeit hysterical, imitation of Fury. "'Can't you keep your dick in your trousers, Phil?'"

The Briticism of the word 'trousers' just made everything funnier. "No, Nick, not when my wife is around."

"Well, I _am_ a known distraction," she said wryly. "Everyone knows that I only have to walk into a room and lust invades your mind. Who would have thought that I would turn out to be such a temptress?"

"Though I do find you _very_ tempting, anyone who says that about you is an idiot." He turned onto his side, letting his hand rest on her stomach. "The best biochemist in the business, and certainly the fiercest."

"Maybe if I have used a bit of that fierceness with Ward…"

She let the words trail off, regret on her face. "I was so scared I couldn't see past it."

"In your shoes, I would have been scared, too." He hadn't told her that one of the highest bids had been from a very unsavory brothel in San Juan, and hoped she never asked. "Don't be blaming yourself for fear, Jem."

"It's a perfectly natural response," she said with a small, rather bitter smile. "I know."

And what could she have done, really? Ward had outweighed her, had certainly been the stronger of the two. It wouldn't have been difficult for him to break bone or hobble her physical movement in some painful, possibly permanent way.

"I know all the arguments," she continued. "I know how rational they are. I still have nightmares about hands grabbing me from behind and the floor shaking under my feet." She took in a breath that was shakier than he had expected, and he realized belatedly that she was quivering slightly under his hand. "I don't want to be scared of Skye, but I am," she admitted in a whisper. "I can't- I can't _cure_ what she is now. I can't stop her from looking at me and seeing the catalyst for what she's become."

"I'm not sure she needs a cure. She was- is- different."

"I know." One of her hands settled over his, just as he was about to remove it for fear of unsettling her further. "I'm not talking about her 084 status- not really. Her test results were always odd, but the human side of odd, do you understand? I've seen the most recent panel of tests… she's different."

He hesitated, unsure exactly where she was going with this. "Jem-"

"That's not necessarily bad," she said quickly. "She's still Skye. But a change at that level… like..."

"Like a virus?" he asked quietly, and knew he had found the right words when she stilled under his hand.

"It's very frightening, when your body turns against you." She said the words so softly he barely heard her. "And not in the human way, like cancer or dementia. When your mere presence begins to manipulate objects in impossible ways, that's downright terrifying."

He hadn't forgotten about her first brush with death (how could he?), but apparently he had missed how deeply it continued to affect her. "There are similarities."

"I managed to cure myself. We even managed to find a cure for you. Curing Skye of this… it would be like trying to cure someone of a disease by giving them mercury to ingest. You might kill the problem, but in doing so you would kill the host."

"So she learns to deal with it."

"She will," Jemma said, with such certainty he knew that her only doubts lay in whether Skye would forgive her at the end of that road. "She's so strong, Phil."

It was only as he was settling in, starting to loop his arm over her waist in hopes of cuddling her to sleep, that she abruptly sat up and climbed out of bed. "Jemma?"

"I'll just be a moment," she replied, her voice unnaturally cheery, and disappeared out the door, her footsteps echoing lightly as she descended the steps.

He briefly considered following her. He could tell just how distraught she was under that strange tone, but also knew just how hurt she would be if he insisted on dogging her steps.

Ah well.

Steve would survive the encounter, doubtless.

* * *

"Captain Rogers!"

The way Steve whirled, startled, was gratifying. The way his eyes widened when he spotted her standing at the foot of the stairs was even more so. "Perhaps you would like some tea," she said sweetly, ignoring Jasper Sitwell as he leaned almost comically far out the door of the briefing room. "You obviously need some help relaxing."

"I wouldn't take that offer," Jasper muttered to Steve.

"I-"

She cut Steve off before he could continue, some part of her shocked at how rude she was being. "Your pacing is quite loud, Captain Rogers. Sound tends to echo in the Bus. I'm sure you hadn't realized."

She caught a glimpse of May out of the corner of her eye, and if she weren't mistaken Jemma thought that she looked rather amused. Jemma's own nerves were too frayed for the expression to have much impact.

"I apologize," Steve replied stiffly, in such a way that she knew he was only doing so for politeness' sake. "I'll be more quiet from now on." He tilted his head slightly to the side, his features shifting to something more open. "He hasn't moved from his location, anyway."

She very nearly said something cutting, but the new look in his eyes stopped her. This wasn't some random man they were tracking, after all- not even just a beloved friend- but a soulmate. Jemma knew all too well how a strained bond could tug at the mind and heart. "I think some tea might be beneficial after all," she said in a softer tone, walking past him into the small galley. "Do you have a preference?"

He hadn't relaxed, exactly, but he did follow after a moment's hesitation. "No."

Tea was a comforting ritual, from beginning to end. There was a brief moment of discomfort as the tea brewed, seconds ticking slowly away and both of them avoiding the glance of the other, but soon enough they both had a mug in front of them. Hers with a splash of milk, his with sugar (a great deal, she noted, tucking the information away for future reference).

"My serum really is very safe," she said hesitantly, hands wrapped around her mug. "I don't want you to worry about that."

"I believe you." His smile was dry and not terribly amused. "Never thought I'd have to tag and bag Bucky- but he's not really Bucky, not right now."

Jemma tried to imagine having to do the same to Phil- or Phil having to do the same to her- and instinctively shuddered. "Do you think he remembers? Even a little bit?"

"Maybe a little… just enough to confuse him."

Jemma stared down into her murky tea, thinking of Agent 33 in her vault, her placid gaze belying the formerly loyal SHIELD agent locked within. "We can find a way to bring him back."

"I hope so."

She tapped a nail against the ceramic of her cup. "You know that I'm not like Natasha, right?" she asked, the words tumbling out. "I'm reckless, not- not-"

"Reckless?" he repeated when she faltered. "Maybe. But very brave." He shrugged when she looked up at him. "We're lucky to have you on our side."

"Oh." She was blushing, she thought. "Thank you."

"Peggy would like you."

She was glad that she hadn't just taken a sip; she had a feeling that she would have spat it across the table in shock. "Really?"

Her pitch took a definite turn for the squeaky, at that.

"Really. Especially the way you tend to take the men around you down a peg or four. She would approve of that." He grinned, quick and very real. "She would probably tell you that I am the most in need of a good knocking down."

The idea that Peggy Carter might approve of her- _her_, Jemma Simmons- made Jemma feel a little light-headed. "That is a very great compliment."

"Even now, she's as strong-willed as ever." He took a sip of his tea, his brow creasing. "Her memory comes and goes, you know."

There was something so incredibly sad about his words- that Steve, known world-over, could be forgotten by the two people who mattered most. Jemma couldn't do anything about the natural process of aging (and wouldn't want to, even if she could- there were some things that just shouldn't be tinkered with), but retrieving Bucky Barnes' memories… that was a possibility. It would have to be done slowly, and with a great deal of care, but it could be done.

"I did hear a little about her prognosis," she acknowledged with a slight dip of her head. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, she remembers me. She just has a tendency to reset, so to speak." He shrugged again, hunching his shoulders inward. "One moment we'll be talking, and then the next it's as if she's just seeing me for the first time in decades… and so we begin again."

He had to have a lot of patience, to live with that, and certainly a great deal of compassion. "There are dangers to bonds with a significant age difference," she said softly, thinking more of the man who slept on the upper deck. "Not that yours started out that way, but…"

"Coulson seems to be in excellent shape." He glanced at her from underneath those startlingly long eyelashes, cutting right to the heart of the matter. "I don't think you need to worry about that anytime soon."

"In this line of work, who knows?"

In the silence that followed Jemma began to wonder if tea hadn't been a mistake after all. She certainly wasn't feeling very comforted, and she doubted that he was, either. The idea of Phil with a faulty memory, or a Phil who did not recognize her at all… and there were all those studies about the expected lifespan of the surviving partner after a bondmate had died. As melodramatic as it sounded, she was beginning to realize that it might actually be possible to die from a broken heart.

"I'd better go back to bed," she said finally, giving him a small, weak smile. "And so should you. Even super-soldiers need sleep, Steve."

"I promise to at least lie down," he replied, his voice and expression earnest.

"That's really all I can ask."

Phil had sprawled into her half of the bed while she was gone, but he scooted over sleepily as she tip-toed into the dark room, and curled up behind her once she had settled herself. "Good?" he murmured into her hair, one arm heavy across her waist.

She had been caught up in images of her probably future, but she forcefully pulled herself back to the present. Phil was hardly wasting away. He was vital, and the arm around her still bore an impressive amount of muscle- which went for the rest of his body, so often hidden under suits. "Good," she murmured back, snuggling back into his hold. For now, good.

* * *

As ever, what should have been simple (ish) was not, though not for the reasons Phil might have expected. Jemma's serum worked as well as she had promised, and Barnes had keeled over like a felled tree within seconds of receiving his dose.

The neighbors, though- the neighbors proved to be a problem.

"Please tell me how a brainwashed assassin managed to make friends in less than a week," Phil asked Steve in a quiet hiss, crouching beneath a windowsill as sirens and raised voices contributed to the chaos outside.

"He always was the kind of guy people flocked to," Steve muttered in response, shifting the unconscious man's body more securely over his shoulder. "And he's been away from Hydra for a while. Shit, Coulson, I wasn't expecting them to _rally_ in his defense. Not a whole building, at least."

Barnes' ability to charm was very inconvenient, and Phil dearly hoped that he would never again have to dodge soup cans being thrown at his head. Their current hiding spot, a room that might have once been a common area, and was now some kind of glorified janitor's closet, would not be safe for very long.

"Can you make it to the roof?" May asked over the comm, her voice tense. "This won't exactly be subtle, Coulson, but it will certainly be fast."

"Can you at least keep the cloaking device on?" he asked in response, scrambling after Steve as the other man bounded ahead of him, out the door and up the stairs. "I don't want to be on the ten o'clock news, May."

"Too late. I'm waiting."

Even with what felt like the entire world watching, it was almost too easy to climb onto the Bus and escape from the icy night below. May was an amazing pilot, and his team was well-trained (to a certain extent), but…

That niggle of doubt in Phil's mind proved to be almost prophetic. They were less than ten feet from the holding cell when Barnes regained consciousness, and after scattering the lot of them like bowling pins- which was, in Phil's mind, now a much more violent metaphor- the Winter Soldier faced Steve head-on… and then dove down the hallway in the opposite direction, vaulting over Jasper and Phil himself before disappearing around a corner.

Wisely, both Phil and Jasper flattened themselves to the ground when Steve performed a similar move.

"Seriously considering locking myself in that cell," Jasper admitted in a gasp as they both scrambled to their feet. "You in, Phil?"

Phil was not 'in', nor did he have any intention of hiding. Jemma was somewhere in the Bus- probably down in the lab, where Barnes might theoretically be heading. The lab was near the exit, after all, and the man might not care that they were at least several hundred feet off the ground at this point.

It was easy to track him. Neither Barnes nor Steve were trying to be covert, and Phil was not surprised when the ruckus eventually ended in the bay of the plane.

Nor was he particularly surprised to dash onto the catwalk and be met with the sight of Jemma huddled against a wall below, Barnes mere inches away and eyeing her like a wild cat watching prey. The sight terrified him, to be sure, but Jemma drew trouble like a lodestone, and odds were she had caught Barnes' eye in an attempt to lure him away from Fitz.

Steve had slowed at the entrance of the lab, inching toward the pair, only to freeze when Barnes snarled a warning and laid a single finger against Jemma's throat.

"I know you."

His voice was rusty, as if it had been some time since he last spoken, but nonetheless Phil had the sense that he was seeing the glimmerings of an actual man in Barnes' still form… though not a man he particularly liked, given how easily he could injure Jemma.

"You know… me?" Jemma asked in a dubious tone. Phil walked quietly down the stairs, a hand on his gun. "Me?"

"Not… not mission," Barnes said, sounding frustrated. "Image."

Jemma paled in response, which- somewhat surprisingly- caused Barnes to snarl again. "The old accounts," he said in a low voice. "Images in the old accounts."

"Email?" she guessed, and he nodded slowly.

"Who hurt you, doll?"

For all that the words seemed to come easily, Barnes spoke them in a disjointed fashion, the bit of antiquated slang tacked on at the end with an almost questioning air. Jemma was giving him a puzzled look, one which gradually sharpened into an expression of intrigue. "He's dead."

Barnes drew back at that, slowly pivoting in a crouch to consider Phil and Steve. His gaze shifted suddenly to the interior of the lab, which did answer Phil's unspoken question about where Fitz was hiding.

"Safe," Jemma said quickly, and reached forward hesitantly to place a hand on the man's arm. "They're all safe."

He turned back to Jemma, hunching forward in a way that was almost as if he were imparting a secret. "My mission." His glance back at Steve was very telling. "He was my mission."

"And he's forgiven you for it." She still looked wary, but it was clear that what danger remained was not aimed at Jemma. "You aren't at fault for actions that were forced on you."

"She's telling the truth, Bucky."

The naked longing in Steve's voice felt too private for what had become such a public moment. Jemma met Phil's eyes across the distance, but she kept her spot just as he remained by the staircase. Too many emotions, too much tension… and Fitz was still stuck under that damn counter.

Barnes didn't move toward Steve, but he did rise to his feet and retreat to the other end of the lab, close to the second door. "Do I know you, punk?"

Well, that sounded promising. Sort of. Jemma seemed to be of the same mindset, because she began walking slowly towards him, Fitz following her. She paused when Barnes shifted his gaze back to her, and waved Fitz on ahead as she spoke. "Phil is my husband," she said, gesturing toward Phil. "He won't hurt me."

It was interesting how Barnes seemed to accept that as explanation enough- or perhaps he wasn't depending on her words so much as her tone. "Burns," he replied succinctly, and Phil could guess what expression might be on Jemma's face as she tried to hide how much that word had affected her.

"Healed," she said faintly. She had begun inching backward once Barnes had accepted her words, and at that reached behind her. Phil took her hand, the loop of gold around her ring finger warm against his hand. "Phil- he would never-"

Barnes' gaze slid away from her, settling on Steve once more, and Phil took the opportunity to pull Jemma up the stairs, shepherding the two scientists further along the upper deck.

"We might want to turn off the cameras." Fitz shot ahead, past Jasper and toward the briefing room. "In case it gets explicit."

"A pity we brought Lola," Jemma said, turning to Phil with a weak smile. "I hope she doesn't take too much damage."

"Lola will be fine." She came forward willingly as he pulled her into his arms, laying her head against his shoulder. "You don't need to worry."

"Never thought I would have to worry about _my_ naked photos being spread around the internet." There was a very obvious bitter note in her voice. "After being such a good girl, and for so long."

Jasper raised a brow, looking bewildered. "So no need for extreme force?" he asked, thankfully choosing a more diplomatic topic.

"Not on our part," Phil answered, rubbing a hand soothingly against Jemma's back. "Go check on May, Jasper."

Jasper turned and left immediately, a look of relief on his face.

Jemma took in a deep, shaky breath, and then stepped away from him. "I'm okay," she said with a smile, a lie if he had ever heard one. "I'm going to… I'm going to go and scold Fitz for trying to jump in front of an assassin."

The temptation to point out that she had done exactly the same thing was very strong. "I need to contact Fury. Come and find me if things become too explosive below, okay?"

"I suppose conking Barnes on the head with a fire extinguisher is out of the question," she joked.

"I would prefer if that were a last ditch maneuver."

He lingered in the hall, watching as she walked away. Straight back, far too composed expression… she would continue on with a stiff upper lip until she collapsed from the strain.

But that was his job, wasn't it? To safeguard; to ease her troubles. He would be all too happy to do both.

* * *

Fitz accepted his scolding with an unnatural amount of grace, and Jemma knew exactly why.

"You needn't be so damn polite just because you feel sorry for me," she informed him, suddenly furious. "I won't be pitied, Fitz."

"It's more that you just scared me senseless, what with the way you shoved me under a desk and all but jumped around waving your hands in the air." The way he glared at her was comforting, in a way- this was Fitz at his irritating and protective best. "'Ooh, come and kill me; I'm Jemma Simmons and utterly fearless'."

"Again, I do _not_ sound like that."

"Yeah, Jem, you do." He jabbed a finger at her, obviously intent on doing the scolding for once. "Yeah, and Coulson would have been a bundle of joy to be around if Barnes had broken your neck. I've still got my guarantee, remember? Your general immunity to life ran out the day Coulson strolled into our lab and nearly knocked over a bottle of acid."

Fitz had a point. Pre-soulmate time was guaranteed time: life might deliver maiming, disease, or any number of terrible things, but death before the words was virtually unheard of. She didn't think about that… at least not often.

"I can only imagine how you would have complained after the fact if I had used that as an excuse," she replied dryly, not quite ready to concede defeat. "The incident with the cat would be minor, in comparison."

"No one would want to be tossed to the wolves, Jemma."

"At least your photographs aren't being handed around like some amateur porn."

Even she hadn't expected the amount of vitriol in her voice. Rage, shame, a complete and utter helplessness that she couldn't begin to deal with- and even if Phil claimed not to resent her for it, she certainly resented herself for being unable to salvage an impossible situation.

Because it had been impossible. The biochemist who hadn't passed her field exams up against two operatives, who had been given the advantage of surprise and extensive weaponry. There hadn't been anything she could have done in that situation other than survive. She had managed that, at least.

"Not yet."

Her jaw dropped as he yanked his sweater over his head, the neckline tangling with his collared shirt and tie. "Help me get this off," he said, his voice muffled. "I'll get Sitwell to take the shots if you can't stomach it. We'll email them to Skye; she'd probably get a kick out of it."

"No. No, no, no- _dammit, Fitz_, keep your fucking clothes on." She began slapping at his hands once he had wrestled the sweater off and was reaching for the hem of his shirt. "I don't want this."

"You don't have to be alone in this, Jem." His gaze was harder than she had ever seen it. "Fitzsimmons, right? Platonic soulmates without the confirmation of marks. You said it."

"I was drunk."

"Yeah, well, I'll still stand by it."

"You don't have to degrade yourself like that."

Fitz froze at those words, and out of the corner of her eye Jemma caught a glimpse of some dark-clad form jerking out of sight. Jasper, of course- she never would have spotted May, and Phil would have just come running.

"No need for anyone else to be Hydra's version of the Playboy centerfold," she continued, the lame joke almost obscene in the pristine hall. Her mouth felt as if she were having a sudden allergic reaction, her throat felt constricted. "I'm sure torture porn is quite their cup of tea."

"Oh, Jem." One look at his face told her that he was out of his depth. Then again, so was she. "Coulson or May?"

"What?"

"I'll just make you mad. Coulson or May?"

May would make her punch something. Phil- Phil had enough to deal with. "Make me mad."

He groaned. "Not the answer I wanted."

"Make me mad, Fitz."

He eyed her as only a long-standing friend could, obviously weighing all of their oldest and bitterest arguments. "Pluto doesn't deserve to be a planet."

"That's child's play, Fitz. Give me something better."

"You can't carry a tune."

"Better. Keep going."

"You deserved that A minus in Professor Renault's class."

"_Fuck you._"

And so on.

* * *

It was only a need for some kind of normalcy that drove Phil into the galley towards noon, throwing together a meal that would hopefully please the assorted tastes of the group while still providing enough portions for the enhanced among them. Steve and Barnes were below, but Jasper had taken a peek at the feed nearly an hour or so before and informed him that everything was still in one piece.

"They're just sitting there chatting, still dressed and everything." Jasper had shrugged, the gesture joined by an eye-roll. "If I were greeting my soulmate for the first time in decades-"

"I think we all know, Jasper."

Jasper had never met his soulmate, as far as Phil knew. That probably should have tipped him off to the man's survival long before now, but he had been rather busy.

Jemma slipped into the galley as he was putting the finishing touches on the meal, leaning against the counter when he shifted to the side to make room. "Well," she said softly, "I'm afraid I've been rather foolish this morning. I know that I've driven Fitz far beyond his capacity for patience, at the very least."

"He'll forgive you." He handed her an apple slice, watching with concern as she nibbled at it with disinterest. "Anything I can do?"

"I need to see those pictures." She looked up at him as he considered her words in silence. "Not knowing will drive me mad, Phil. My imagination is far too good."

"Then we'll ask Barnes to show you." Jemma was never one to choose the route of ignorance being bliss when given the option, and he wasn't surprised that she needed to see even this. "First possible opportunity."

She nodded, casting her gaze back downward. "Maybe we should have run off while we had the chance. We could be snowed in at some snug cabin right now, or grousing about customers in that apartment above our coffee shop."

"That warrant out for our arrests might have put a hitch in those plans."

The corners of her mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles. "A fair point. It would have been lovely, though, at least for a while."

Steve and Barnes did not make an appearance for the meal, no matter how often he caught Jemma glancing toward the doorway. She toyed with her food, mainly, though made a more concentrated effort to actually eat after Fitz appeared and patted her on the shoulder with some snarky remark about the tenth Doctor.

When the pair finally did arrive above deck, both looking as if they had just attended an extensive and rather emotional psychotherapy session, Jemma was asleep on the couch in the common area.

Barnes stopped, considered her sleeping form, and then turned to Phil. "She okay?"

"She wants to see the pictures."

The other man nodded gravely, turning back to Jemma. He leaned forward, poking a finger hesitantly against her arm until she woke up. "Come on, doll."

Jemma's initial look of confusion shifted to comprehension, and she came quickly to her feet. She hesitated as she passed Phil, still sitting in his armchair. "Do you…?"

"Your choice, Jem. If you don't want me to see, I'm fine with that."

In a sense, he did want to see, but for much the same reason she did: his imagination was also very good. Jemma, though, and Jemma alone, would be the arbiter of this decision.

"I don't," she admitted. "Maybe after I know."

He gave her a gentle smile, extending a hand to take hers briefly. "Okay."

* * *

Barnes pulled up the images quickly, with no fanfare or warnings. In a way, she appreciated his directness, his willingness to show her exactly what she needed to see without trying to soften the blow first.

And it was a blow.

The nudity wasn't what she saw first, or even what had the greatest impact. Ward had chosen his stills carefully, that was clear. Her face was the dynamic center of each image, and more so the emotions that were clear in each shot: a mix of stubbornness, fear, and anger that even she could read.

He had carefully cropped the images to keep Bakshi out of the frame, but there was no doubt of what kind of scene had been captured. The lighting was too stark, and her wounds too obvious for it to be anything other than an interrogation. He had done her that much of a favor, at least: he had not tried to portray her as the seduced ingenue or a cooperative participant. This was violence and exposure, plain and simple.

Barnes hadn't moved away from his post behind her as she clicked through the images. His interest wasn't sexual, though- it wasn't even really interest. "The interrogator was Hydra," she said quietly, quickly moving past one shot that displayed her terror too clearly for her comfort. "He's dead."

"And the one who selected the images?" he asked, his voice a strange kind of matter-of-fact.

"Dead."

He crouched against the wall, balancing on the balls of his feet. "It helps to know." He said it in a way that was almost wistful, reminding her of the inevitable gaps in his memory. "Even half-machine, I want to know."

So would she, in his situation. "It isn't your fault." She leaned back in her chair, unable to look away from her own face. "I know how useless a phrase that seems when someone directs it at you, but it's true."

"You've certainly had a taste of it, doll."

With sheer force of will she minimized the screen, contemplating her next question. "How many have seen, do you think?"

"Not the grunts. Not the low-level security." He met her gaze when she turned in her chair, and she was struck by how sane he looked now, in comparison to his wildness earlier. "The brass, yes. The ones who hunt out secrets, yes." He tilted his head to the side, considering her. "Your mate knows?"

"He knows."

"Good. Makes blackmail useless, at least when it comes to keeping him in the dark."

"Even if he didn't, I would tell him before giving in to their demands."

"Even better." He reached forward, tapping his finger against the black lettering on her collarbone. "Keep him close, doll."

It was difficult to stand and walk away from the small laptop, even instinctually knowing that those images, having reached Bucky, would not be going any further. She managed a few steps before turning. "Can we do anything for you?"

The slow grin was surprising, but it did answer the question of how he had charmed his neighbors in so short a time. "Don't give me another mickey finn. It had an uncomfortable kick."

"Oh." The word was faint, and she was blushing furiously. "I tried to make it as gentle as possible while still being efficacious."

His grin did not fade. "I've had worse."

* * *

Phil followed her up to their quarters when she re-emerged, sitting a circumspect distance away from her on the couch once she had settled in.

"You are terribly far away," she noted, and bit her lip. "Will you move closer?"

"Gladly." He moved to sit hip-to-hip with her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "I didn't want to overwhelm you."

With a sigh of relief she drew up her legs, angling herself so that she could place them over his lap and lean into his embrace. "The pictures are very bad, Phil."

"I'm so sorry, Jem."

And he _did_ sound regretful, and all for her sake. He held her more firmly, pulling her further onto his lap, and it was more comforting than she could have expressed. "They don't make me look like a willing participant, at least," she added.

A minor blessing. She still didn't want anyone to see them- still didn't want _Phil_ to see them, though that was partially because his anger would be enough to make him do something rash. And there was the fear that someone, someday, might mail copies to her parents, both so totally in the dark when it came to her actual life.

He lifted one hand and pressed a finger under her chin, exerting gentle pressure until she looked up. "I love you, Jemma."

She couldn't help but smile at his sincerity. "And I love you."

"I love every inch of you."

"I know."

Two more fingers slipped under her chin in an obvious caress, and she closed her eyes to enjoy the feeling. "That is nice. No wonder cats purr when people scratch under their chins."

She peeked up at him after a few more minutes of bliss, catching the furrow on his brow. "Are you still with me?"

He blinked, looking surprised, and then pulled her closer. "Always, and as ever, with you."


	5. everything we hide

Given that they were returning to the base with one surprisingly sarcastic assassin and one formerly dead double agent, Jemma had hoped that Fury's reaction to their assembled party would be more than a mere eye twitch.

She was, of course, disappointed.

Though he did give her one of those solemn nods he only ever seemed to give Natasha, which was nice.

Bucky disappeared with Steve (which was hardly surprising), though Jemma doubted that they would have much time alone, given the determined look that Natasha was wearing as she skulked after them. She might not be part of their triad, but it was obvious that she had a certain amount of unfinished business with the pair of them that might or might not involve bloodshed.

Jemma thought that bloodshed was unlikely, actually. Natasha had been carrying a bottle, and it had looked suspiciously like some of the Asgardian liquor that Thor favored. She made a mental note to see if it would be possible to stage a small experiment regarding a super soldier's tolerance of non-earth origin alcohol. It would be nothing she could publish, really- the scientific community did frown on doing such experiments- but as a fugitive, she doubted anyone would publish her work, anyway.

Jasper and Phil had a debriefing to attend to, and Fitz had been complaining about the relative lack of food on board the Bus for the past two hours, at least, which left Jemma walking back to her quarters all by her lonesome. It was nice, actually, to have a moment to herself. Privacy on the Bus was so often only to be found in one's head, and even tucked in bed she sometimes found it hard to think.

Specifically, because of Phil. Not because she didn't want him to be there, but it was sometimes simpler to find solutions to her more personal problems when he wasn't curled against her back. She would become distracted by the feel of his lips and nose against the back of her neck, or find her concentration waning as his warmth lulled her to sleep. Either that, or he would catch her thoughtful mood and stay awake himself, asking her if she needed to talk.

Which she did, really, but she didn't think he would want to know what she was considering. Because it was radical, and very uncomfortable for her, and even Phil occasionally displayed the kind of alpha-male mentality that could be exciting in small doses but absolutely insufferable in the long-term.

And it was her body, after all.

For the greater good, and all that.

She had to speak with Bucky first, anyway, and he would be tied up for the foreseeable future. But she could plot, and she-

The dull doorplate for Vault D caught her eye.

"Have you spoken with her?"

Jemma didn't flinch as Audrey stepped up beside her, the other woman's attention also focused on the door. "Once," she replied. "She was SHIELD, you know, before Whitehall got ahold of her."

"Clint told me." Audrey shrugged when Jemma gave her a questioning glance. "They abducted me a few nights ago. I'm not sure what I said to convince them that I wasn't here to break up your marriage, but after a few minutes Natasha switched from glaring to pouring me shots of vodka."

"She's a quick study, Nat."

"Yep." Audrey grinned, though she looked a bit ill. "The hangover, though- I'm too old to pound back that much alcohol in one night. Natasha's tolerance is superhuman."

"So I've been told." Jemma looked back toward the door. "Do you want to talk with her?"

"Can we do anything for her?"

"I would like to think so." Jemma considered the machine locked away in one of the labs, the same one Phil had once experienced. "The easiest way might be the most dangerous."

"No need to start with the nuclear option." Audrey stepped ahead, placing her hand on the doorknob. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

They walked quietly together down the stairs, stopping in sync before the opaque screen that lay between them and Agent 33. "Do we even know her name?" Audrey asked quietly.

Jemma thought hard, and realized with a sinking feeling that she hadn't a clue. "No."

"We'll have to do something about that."

Agent 33 barely reacted to the screen shifting to clear between them. She blinked up at them, halfway through downward-facing dog, before smoothly transitioning to lotus position on the floor. "You're back."

"You remember me?" Jemma asked, lowering herself to the floor to copy her position. Audrey followed suit. "My name is Jemma, and this is Audrey. Do you remember your name?"

"Agent 33."

"Is that your only name?" Audrey asked.

The other woman seemed to consider this for a moment, before giving a minute shrug. "I am Agent 33." She looked up at the ceiling. "Are we on a fault line?"

It had been clear from the beginning that an immense amount of intelligence lay behind the woman's blank eyes, but this was, as far as Jemma knew, the first actual question that the woman had asked any of them. "Not exactly," she replied, unsure how to explain Skye without actually revealing important secrets. "Have the quakes been disturbing you?"

"The walls are sound. My bed is warm." She tilted her head to the side, her gaze still directed upward. "Only silence here."

Those were the last words she said, though they spent a further ten minutes trying to engage her. Finally, Agent 33 turned her back to them, and they left.

"That was a small step forward," Jemma said after they had ascended to the main hall. "She's never asked questions before."

"'Only silence here'," Audrey quoted softly, looking as if she were considering the phrase quite seriously. "She doesn't see many visitors, does she?"

"I-"

Jemma paused, reconsidering the words she had almost said. "No," she said eventually, the word tinged with surprise. "At first, yes, but once it became clear that she had nothing to say-"

"-and you were all needed elsewhere-"

"-I'm not sure she's seen anyone other than for meal delivery." How long had it been since anyone had spoken with her? Jemma's brief conversation with the woman had been several weeks previous. It had been a month, maybe, since anyone had spoken more than a few words to her.

It was entirely possible that someone had taken the time to converse with (or at) Agent 33 during all the time Jemma had been off base, but she thought it unlikely. Skye's father, on the other hand, was probably still receiving daily visitors in the form of interrogators.

"We're terrible good guys," Jemma concluded glumly.

"Could use improvement, for sure." Audrey crossed her arms over her chest, biting her lip. "I wonder… if she might like some music."

Jemma thought over the notion. "The only possible way it would hurt the status quo is if Hydra programmed her to react violently to the cello, which seems unlikely. If you're willing, I think you should try."

"It will do me good to practice in front of an audience." Audrey quirked a smile, the expression on her face soft and fond. "Bruce insists on being complementary."

"You are a professional musician," Jemma replied dryly. "And he's hardly the type to nitpick."

"He is a very kind man."

They exchanged looks, neither pointing out the obvious implication. Jemma felt oddly as if they had come to a silent and very agreeable understanding.

"You never even had a chance to unpack," Audrey said, gesturing toward the duffel bag that Jemma had left next to the vault door. "See you at dinner?"

"Yes."

Maybe they could be friends, after all.

* * *

"Good job getting busted," Nick said dryly as they took their seats in his office. "You used to be better at blending in than that."

"I think it's more likely that the media was tipped off." Phil shot Jasper a sly look. "You didn't make any last calls before leaving the coast, did you?"

"And irritate Agent Simmons? No, Phil." Jasper shook his head, leaving no doubt that wherever the tip off had come from, it had not been his quarter. "She shot me once; I don't want to give her a reason to do it again."

Wise man. "We were already on the radar of several agencies, Nick. That could have happened anywhere."

"Getting caught climbing into an invisible plane with Captain America and an unconscious man didn't really help." Nick sighed, looking as if he needed a stiff drink. "But we got our Winter Soldier, at least, and from what everyone has said he seems to be in his right mind."

"Or thereabouts," added Jasper. "I'm guessing that little scene has caused a stir?"

"A stir is putting it mildly, Agent. I've intercepted several classified documents screaming for our blood, a Hydra cell sent out a message claiming responsibility, and Victoria Hand emailed me wanting to know if all of our rescues were going to be so dramatic from now on." Fury glared at them both impartially. "As far as I can tell, Talbot believes Hydra's claim. Those documents I intercepted? As far as several governments are concerned, you and your wife are now evil masterminds. Opinions are split as to whether our favorite American hero has been brainwashed, or whether he's changed sides entirely."

"Steve work for Hydra?" Phil said with an incredulous laugh, feeling a tiny spark of panic. "How desperate are they?"

"They're scared, Phil. Scared men do stupid shit and believe even stupider theories. Because of that, I'm grounding your team for at least a few weeks, maybe months. I'm bringing in Isabella Hartley and her mercs to take up the slack."

"And what does Hand think about that?" Phil asked. "I can't imagine she'll be pleased that you're bringing Hartley back into the fold."

Even Phil, with his connections, wasn't quite sure what had split up that soul-bonded pair, but the rift between them was vast.

"Hand will deal with it, because she's a professional. Hartley's loyal, and she has the skills we need." Fury jotted a note down on a nearby piece of paper, the letters spiked and angular. "Barton and Romanov will be tag-teaming with them. Phil, you're back to being the voice that guides them home." He glanced up, a wry expression on his face. "Partially because, once she heard of my plans, Natasha refused to work with anyone else."

Out of all the erstwhile agents he knew, Natasha was definitely Phil's favorite.

Other than his wife, obviously.

"Natasha knows her own mind," was his diplomatic response, and the stink-eye Fury gave him immediately outstripped every single disgruntled expression he had ever received from Nick over the course of his career.

* * *

There were new agents walking the halls, which in some ways was a relief- new blood, and thus less of a chance that Fury would decide to send Phil off on some kind of long-term mission- as well as a source of discomfort. Jemma was determined to not disgrace herself with another public panic attack, though she knew that good intentions would not make dealing with a trigger any easier. Box her in an elevator with several strapping, unknown male agents for the space of a minute and she would likely be fine; stall the elevator between floors for an hour or more and she had a feeling that she would be folding herself into a ball in a corner.

Which was _okay_, she reminded herself. Not optimal by any means, but understandable.

She caught up with Skye on her way to dinner, and for a brief moment they exchanged measuring looks. Jemma thought that they were both considering ducking down a nearby hallway, but with a surge of newfound bravery she stepped closer and threw her arms around the woman in a hug.

Skye stilled, her body stiff under Jemma's hands. "Hey," Skye said warily, the floor shimmering under their feet. "You're back."

"Yes." Jemma stepped back, just enough so that she was outside of Skye's personal space without retreating. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know. Rocking and rolling." Skye shifted her weight in a nervous gesture, glancing down the hall that led to the less-frequented parts of the base. "I guess we're both going to dinner."

"I suppose we are."

They continued toward the kitchen in step, Jemma ignoring the considering looks Skye kept sending her way. The floor did continue to roll, if slightly- which for Jemma was a particularly uncomfortable feeling. She might have once been close friends with Skye, but her nightmares were no joke.

"So. A Vegas wedding. Not quite AC's style, or yours."

"It was quick, and the safest method we could think of."

"You didn't take us."

Jemma slowed her steps, finally stopping entirely in the middle of the hallway. "Skye-"

"I wanted- I would have wanted to be there. For AC." Skye examined her nails, studiously keeping her gaze from Jemma. "For you."

"We would have preferred that." Jemma shoved her hands into her pockets, acutely aware of the pressure on her left hand when her wedding band caught against the fabric. "But to have everyone we love there- the team, the Avengers… we couldn't take the risk." She took in a breath. "And I wanted- I wanted those legal ties, even if they've made life a little more dangerous. I wanted to be able to call Phil my husband, and to wear his ring and see him wear mine. Maybe it's silly."

"Your wedding," Skye said with a shrug, but the set of her shoulders eased a little. "How does it feel, to have made the most wanted list?"

They continued walking once more, Jemma feeling a bit lighter. "Like my bad-girl shenanigans have gotten out of control."

"Possibly the understatement of the year." The look Skye shot her was almost like the Skye of old. "Only you would risk imprisonment over a marriage certificate."

She seemed to fade, at that, her expression turning distant once more. "Anyway, congratulations."

Skye swept ahead of Jemma into the kitchen, but Jemma couldn't help but feel pleased by how the conversation had gone. It was certainly the most companionable few minutes she had spent with Skye since before the temple.

Steve and Bucky were absent, for obvious reasons. It was just their little team again, for the most part, though occasionally one of the new agents would come in for a sandwich or a cup of coffee before scuttling off awkwardly. They didn't intend to do so, Jemma could tell, but even she could spot the way they tensed slightly on entering the room and observing the group around the table, the way they exited with quickened steps.

Of their team, Trip was the bright light, the one who seemed cheerful despite all else. Somehow he managed to balance out the rough edges everyone else seemed to display, even making Skye chuckle at a joke or two.

"I think that went well," Jemma said once she and Phil were back in their quarters, Phil sitting in an armchair with a file in his lap. "Skye even smiled at me once. Or grimaced, it might have been a grimace."

She tugged her sweater up over her head, feeling the camisole she wore underneath ride up to brush against her ribs. "Did Fury threaten you with death again?"

When she turned back to Phil he was staring at her with fascinated interest, an interest that only deepened when she stripped off the camisole as well and began unbuttoning her jeans. "I've been roundly scolded," he replied, gaze fixed on her breasts. "Going to bed?"

"Or something." She wriggled out of her jeans, tossing them and her socks to the wayside. "Move your file, dear. I'm going to sit there."

"And what do you have in mind?"

He was careful as he put his arms around her, but Jemma wasn't in the mood for carefulness. "You're my husband, you know."

"I have very vivid memories of our wedding, yes," he said, quirking a small smile.

"Well, I'm going to sleep with my husband," she stated firmly, beginning to undo his tie. "With your permission."

He nodded, hands settling more firmly on her hips.

"Verbal consent, please."

"Yes, Jemma." His fingertips slid beneath the waistband of her underwear, brushing purposefully against her skin. His voice, when he spoke next, was low and much to her liking. "Please."

"Do you feel like we have a power disparity in the bedroom?" she asked curiously, aware that the balance had tipped rather drastically since her time with Bakshi and Ward. "You can take control sometimes, you know. I'm not interested in dominating you on a regular basis."

"I want you to be comfortable. If being on top makes you comfortable, that's what we'll do."

He made it sound so simple. "I like being on the bottom sometimes, too."

"Okay."

"And when I'm in the right mood, being on my knees is very exciting."

"Just tell me when."

"You would let me do just about anything to you, wouldn't you?"

He considered that briefly. "As much as I love you… no."

That was the right response, actually. "Good." She kissed him heatedly before drawing back and speaking again. "Because there are things I don't want you doing to me, either." Pain, mainly. A good, rough shag was fun, but actual pain- even a spanking- was not something she was eager to indulge in recreationally, in either role. "You understand, I think."

"Yes, I do." He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her firmly against his chest. "You look beautiful, sweetheart."

Her own ability to measure her own attractiveness had been damaged by her ordeal, but she believed him when he spoke like that. "And you look very handsome." She brushed a hand over his hair, smiling as she took in her favorite face. "How lucky I am."

It wasn't fast or rough, partially because neither of them were in that kind of mood, and partially because she was, as usual, a bit oversensitive after the end of her menses. A pleasing mix of tender and firm was exactly what she was looking for, and judging by the look on his face it fit his mood, as well.

She rolled over onto her stomach afterward, feeling much too boneless to even consider cleaning up for at least a few minutes. She felt him settle onto his side beside her, his fingers tracing light patterns across her back. The streets of a long-dead city, she thought sleepily, and decided not to mention it. It was likely just a bit of muscle memory coming to the fore while his guard was low, and nothing more.

"Phil, I'm going to do something," she said after a minute or so, turning her head to peer at him. She hadn't intended to bring this up at all, but the idea of keeping entirely silent until after the fact rubbed her the wrong way. She didn't need his permission, but keeping secrets never ended well. "I don't think you'll like it."

"Planning on selling us out to Hydra?" he asked, covering a yawn.

"No, not at all."

"Okay. That's the worst I can think of."

"But you trust that I won't do anything _too_ rash without good reason, right?"

He blinked, seeming to wake up a little. "Yes. You're still not thinking of going undercover, are you?"

"No."

He nodded, still moving one hand gently against her skin. "Okay, Jemma. I trust you."

"Even if it's embarrassing?"

"For me, or for you?" he asked, and then shrugged. "I trust you, Jemma. Do you want to tell me, or…?"

"I'm not sure if it can be done, yet." And to know, she would need to consult with Bucky, and with Skye, a meeting which she thought would be very interesting. "I need to do some research, but I promise that I will tell you before the plan is actually executed."

"I can live with that." He brushed a kiss against her shoulder, beginning to look sleepy again in that very pleased kind of way he tended to look after an orgasm. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

* * *

She finally tracked down Bucky the next afternoon, and after explaining her idea to him in hushed tones he regarded her for a long moment, the seconds ticking by.

"That's pretty extreme, doll," he said finally.

"The pictures are going to get out eventually," she replied stubbornly. "Better if they give us an advantage in the process."

"You've got guts." He nodded in a jerky fashion, and she could tell that as much as he disliked the idea, he also admired its brazenness. "They're yours to take, if this is what you really want."

"I think… I think it is."

"Be sure. Can't take this back, once we send them out."

"And we can't stop the people who already have them from distributing them." She smiled sadly, remembering all too clearly the worst of the images. "Come and meet Skye. If anyone can do this, she can."

"She the one shaking the foundations?"

"Yes."

"Huh."

He followed her through the base, glaring at any agent who had the misfortune of coming across their path. Not that anyone in the Playground would be foolish enough to offer him insult, but Jemma thought it was a defensive measure, all the same.

Skye was alone in her room when Jemma knocked, and after giving them both a startled glance stepped back so that they could enter. "This our new buddy?" she asked dryly, her gaze lingering on his metal arm. "Aren't you… tall."

"Thank you."

That hadn't been the response that Skye had evidently been expecting, and she narrowed her eyes as she considered the two of them. "What's up?"

"I need you to build a virus."

The weight of Skye's entire regard fell on Jemma at that. "A virus?" she replied flatly. "What kind?"

"Something that will destroy Hydra's servers, after transmitting copies of their files to us." Jemma shifted her weight, seeing the unimpressed look in Skye's eyes.

"I've tried that," Skye said dismissively, turning away slightly. "Not even the dumbest Hydra lackey is going to open a mystery attachment."

"They will if it looks like it was sent from the top brass."

She turned back at Bucky's words. "You know how to help me fake that, do you? What are we sending?"

Jemma and Bucky exchanged a look, the latter shrugging minutely. Jemma took in a deep breath before replying, feeling as if she had reached a point of no return. "My pictures."

Skye looked baffled at that. Not because she didn't understand the implications, but because she understood the implications all too well. "No," she said quickly, bafflement turning to anger. "I'm not sending _those_ out. Forget it."

"They're already circulating." Jemma ignored the way that the little hula dancer's skirt on a nearby shelf was already bobbing back and forth, and stepped forward to lay a gentle hand on Skye's arm. "Please, Skye. This is our advantage."

"I don't like it."

"You think I do?" Jemma snapped, removing her hand. "Have you _seen_ those pictures, Skye? Have you? I don't like the idea of anyone else seeing them either, but I'll sacrifice what remains of my dignity if it will save even one life."

What tremor there had been abruptly stilled. "Yeah," Skye sighed, sounding both defeated and a little bit amused. "You would."

Skye walked the few steps to the small desk where her laptop sat and tapped a few keys. "I guess you're here to give me the files, too?" she asked Bucky, and backed away when he approached. "Best not to make this a straightforward virus," she mused, leaning back against the wall as he worked. "Those photos should have some kind of embedded code that I can work with. I'll add in a time delay- an hour, maybe- then the program executes a search and destroy while pilfering Hydra's files." Her grin was sharp. "Like can find like."

Jemma gave her a quizzical look, unsure what that meant, but Bucky nodded in approval. "The codes embedded in the pictures will search out the same code," he explained, minimizing a window on the screen and stepping away. "The men who already have those photos also have access to far more in-depth information than your average grunt."

"It will take me some time." Skye settled in front of the laptop, but made no effort to open the files Bucky had procured for her. "I'll let you know when it's ready. Have you told Fury, yet?"

That had almost slipped Jemma's mind. "I'll tell him before we send anything," she said. She would tell Phil first, if Skye came up with a workable program. Then Fury.

Skye kept her hands away from the keyboard while they were still in the room, but Jemma knew exactly when she opened the first picture. They were halfway down the corridor when the building shuddered around them with a quiet groan.

Bucky looked up at the ceiling and then back at her. "Gonna go find the punk," he said, his eyes dark and tired. "Let me know when she's ready."

Jemma spent the rest of the afternoon in the lab, researching possible memory aids for Agent 33. "How do we not know her name?" she muttered at one point in frustration. "It's like she was wiped from the face of the planet."

Some Hydra hacker, perhaps, had taken care of that information. Perhaps Skye's virus would retrieve the name along with Whitehall's method of memory erasure. Knowing how the deed had been done might give Jemma the key to unlocking the woman's mind.

That was a good goal, she decided. Even if they gained nothing else from this, if Jemma could bring 33 back to herself, that would in itself be worth the trouble.

* * *

He found the feed by accident. Sometimes, when he needed a brief break from paperwork and communiques, it helped to check the feed from the security cameras on base. Something about the sheer banality of absolutely nothing happening was very soothing.

Normally the feed from Vault D was unexceptional. Agent 33 slept, or stretched her way through a variety of yoga poses, or simply stared at the wall. Today, though, she had a guest.

He unmuted the sound, unsurprised when Bach drifted over the speakers. Audrey tended to fall back on his solos for the cello when she was looking to play simply for the joy of playing; they were so familiar to her that sheet music was unnecessary.

And Agent 33 sat inches from the barrier, watching with more alertness than he had seen her display in quite some time.

Interesting.

There was a knock, then. "Come in."

To his surprise, Jemma and Skye stepped in, side by side. "Hey, AC."

He glanced quickly at Jemma, taking stock of her expression. She looked tired, and less hopeful than he might have expected, given that she and Skye had evidently opened some line of communication again. "We have something to show you," she explained, and Skye's expression immediately turned alarmed.

"Yeah, I'm not going to be in the room for this." She shrugged when Jemma turned to her, and held out her laptop. "I mean, you don't really want me here when he sees, do you?"

Jemma hesitated, then finally accepted the laptop. "No, I suppose not."

"Right. So, AC, I built the virus. I still think this is a bit extreme, but Jemma insisted and- well, you'll see. I'll be outside."

Skye walked quickly out the door, drawing it closed behind her.

"This is what you were talking about?" Phil asked Jemma, thinking that perhaps he had an inkling of the plan, now.

"Yes. It's-"

She broke off, obviously unsettled, and set the laptop in front of him. "You don't have to look if you don't want to."

He placed one hand lightly on the lid, but did not open it. Instead, he asked in the gentlest tone he could manage, "What are we doing with your pictures, Jemma?"

"Sending them out to key members of Hydra." She paused, considering him. "Men whom Bucky thinks will actually open the files, if presented with certain phrases. And once the files are opened, Skye's virus will do the rest."

"Do you want me to see, Jem?"

"It only seems fair," she replied, tipping her head forward so that her hair fell in front of her face. "And I thought that it might eat away at you, eventually- knowing that those pictures existed and never seeing them for yourself. They're bad, Phil, but now that I've had time to consider them, I have to admit that I imagined them to be far worse. I won't leave you in the dark."

He drew her down onto his lap and brushed the strands of hair out of her face. "Okay."

He clicked through the pictures quickly, not dwelling on any particular image. Didn't want to dwell on them, really. Bad, as she had said, but some small part of him, the part too well acquainted with the evils of the world, pointed out that they could have been worse.

She stayed curled up in his lap, her face pressed against his shoulder. "The virus will transmit the information to us before destroying their systems," she murmured, pressing one hand lightly over the place where his scar lay. "It's worth it to me, Phil."

He closed the lid of the laptop, trying to put his thoughts together. She didn't need for him to be emotional about this, even if the images made him want to burn and salt the ground Hydra stood on. This could be the turning point they needed. This could be what made the world safe enough for them to clear their names, perhaps raise a family.

He still didn't like it, but then again, this wasn't really his call.

"Then I'm behind you every step of the way."

She lifted her head to peer up at him, uncertainty on her face. "If you are dead-set against it, Phil, I won't."

"This is your choice, and I think it's a very brave one." He ran his fingertips down one side of her face, tracing the line of her cheekbone and the curve of her jaw. "Whatever you decide, I'll back you up."

"Okay." She tucked her head down against his shoulder, releasing a sigh. "Perhaps we could sit here for a few minutes, then, before showing Fury."

Who, even if he had a problem with it, wouldn't overlook the immense boon it would be to SHIELD. Nick was practical like that.

Phil slipped his arms around her, holding her close. "However long you like, Jemma."

"We might laugh about this one day," she said in a hopeful voice. "In a few decades, perhaps."

He rather doubted it.

* * *

Fury listened to Jemma's spiel, examined the images, and then leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. "You're sure about this? I'm not going to lie, Simmons- I'm desperate enough to use this to my advantage, but I won't do it without your permission."

Jemma appreciated the fact that he was explicitly asking for _her_ permission, and didn't once even glance toward Phil. "I'm sure, sir."

And she was. She might not like it very much, but she felt certain to the core that this was exactly what she needed to do. "It's ready to be sent, if you approve. Sergeant Barnes has already made sure that the wording of the email is correct, and that it contains the key phrases the recipients will trust."

He gave her a long stare, as if assessing how truthful she was being. "Can't be undone, if I press send."

"I know." She took in a deep breath. "And you won't be sending it. I will."

Her choice, after all. Better that she be the one to send it out into the void, claiming ownership in one final way.

He nodded solemnly, turning the laptop toward her. For a moment she stared at the simple little email, looking so innocuous that it hardly seemed the ticking bomb it was. As her fingers hovered over the touchpad, a hand came to rest on her back.

Phil, of course. Not in warning, or as a way to say get on with it, already, but simply a reminder of his warm, reassuring presence.

She hit send.

"Well," she said, taking a step away from the small computer as the email disappeared from sight. "That's done. Are you- are you hungry?" she asked Phil, looking at him for the first time since they had entered the room.

She felt his thumb sweep back and forth across the material of her blouse, a tiny little caress that was surprisingly comforting. "Yes," he said with a soft smile. "Come on, I'll make your favorite."

She handed Skye her laptop outside of Fury's office, giving her a small smile. "Thank you, Skye."

Skye nodded slowly, the tense set of her shoulders relaxing slightly. "You're welcome, Jemma."

As she continued down the hall with Phil she pressed close, smelling his favorite cologne and breathing a sigh of relief when he wrapped his arm around her waist. "Do you think you might have the time to cuddle up and watch a movie this evening?" she asked, trying her keep her voice light.

"Yes." No uncertainty at all in that answer. "Just tell me when, and I'll be there."

And he was. She didn't think that either of them paid much attention to the screen- only her familiarity with the film was helping her keep tabs on the general plotline- but snuggling under the covers with him in their pajamas had been the main point, anyway.

"Thank you," she murmured at one point, head against his chest.

"No, sweetheart." His fingers combed through her hair in steady, gentle strokes. "Thank you."

* * *

_AN: Many thanks to Selmak, who came up with the idea of the virus in the first place. _


	6. all of our receipts

He was still with her when she woke up, despite the fact that it was at least an hour past the time when he traditionally rose. Phil wasn't even reading one of those ever-present files, which in itself was rather like a miracle. "Good morning," he said softly, one arm draped over her waist, his hand stroking her hip. "How are you?"

"Settled," she answered after a long moment of thought, her voice scratchy from the hours of disuse. "I would like to say I feel triumphant, but I don't."

"But not regretful, I hope?"

"No. It was the only option available to me that felt powerful." She stretched and then rolled onto her side, resting against him. "Are you angry, now? Because I would do it again, Phil, if necessary."

"No." They were almost nose to nose, and his expression was still as gentle and loving as it had been when she had woken up. "I'm very proud of you. That was incredibly brave- not that I expect anything less from my wife."

"You keep saying things like that. One of these days I'll do something incredibly cowardly and prove you wrong."

"I doubt it, though if you do I would probably end up thanking you for not scaring another five years off my life."

She shut her eyes and snuggled closer, catching a glimpse of the small grin he had given her at those words. Warm bed, warm husband- two very nice incentives to try and forget the world outside their door for a little longer. Her overactive mind did not cooperate. "We've probably received something by now," she muttered against his neck. "I suppose we should get up."

"Fury has been sending me increasingly agitated texts for the past several hours," he agreed, but the arm he had around her merely tightened. "I know his codes, though. He hasn't hit on anything that requires an instant reaction, not yet."

"So we could stay here for another few minutes?"

"I think so."

A few minutes turned into ten, and then into twenty, and at that point Jemma could no longer rationalize staying in her safe, warm nest. "Damn," she sighed, pulling herself from her arms and moving to sit at the edge of the bed. The air was chilly, as usual, and she sighed again before glancing back at her husband, who was watching her from under rumpled blankets. "I never thought I would be the kind of woman to send dirty pictures to men," she told him ruefully. "Especially of myself."

He frowned, shedding the blankets and coming to sit beside her. "Jem-"

"I'm fine, Phil. I was just reminded of what my mum would say." Her mum would never have admitted that the sending of such images could be justified. "Propriety, and all that. Not that Hydra gives a damn about propriety."

He was giving her a very peculiar look. "If it makes you feel any better-"

He stopped abruptly, but she picked up his train of thought well enough. "Natasha will carve out the eyes of every recipient?"

"Something like that." He shrugged. "Maybe I should be the one digging out eyeballs, but in all honesty I'm more comfortable with a straightforward punch."

She smiled at that, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. "In all honesty, Phil, I much prefer a husband who doesn't go around collecting eyeballs on my behalf."

"Are you sure? Because a spork works wonders."

"What a wealth of information you are. Next time I have a dead body on hand I will give it a try." She tried to repress her smile as he began to laugh. "I am serious, Phil."

"I know." He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "That's why I'm laughing."

"I hope she doesn't bring them to me." She shook her head slightly, calculating just how many eyeballs that might come to. "Not even I need that many eyes to use as research materials."

"Just the fact that you said that makes me think you have an experiment in mind." He tickled her palm. "Unless you've always had a stock of eyeballs on the Bus?"

"No, and I regretted it when Akela came on board." She shot him a look that was more teasing than anything else. "Try not to ask me to do impromptu surgery again, Phil. I might be a biochemist, and I might be a well-trained field medic, but I don't actually have a medical degree."

"I shouldn't have thrown all of that onto your shoulders," he replied, sounding regretful, which had not been her intention. "I could have been so much better to you, in the early days."

"Well, yes," she admitted easily, watching as he winced. "And in return, I could have been more forthright with my feelings, and there was that whole running away incident. No fear, Phil." She moved closer until they were hip to hip, and rested her chin on his shoulder. "Husband."

He leaned his forehead against hers, smiling once more. "Wife."

"Perhaps you could wait here for a few minutes while I run into the loo?" she asked, thinking of much more pleasurable things to do than listening to Fury recount whatever information had come from the virus. "We could seduce each other and then nap until noon."

"Two things I would love to do, if the odds on Fury breaking into our room at some point weren't so good."

"I would like to think that if he actually interrupted us mid-coitus I would just throw a pillow at him and tell him to go away," she said, amused. "But I take your point."

He kept hold of her hand as she stood and began moving away, gently holding her in place. "I would be more than happy to seduce you this evening, or let you seduce me," he offered, and when she turned back to meet his eyes she saw a welter of emotions there: love and wistfulness and an honesty that was very pleasing. "Raincheck?"

"Deal." She stroked her fingers over the pulse-point on his wrist, not at all ready to abandon this moment for what the day might bring. "Maybe once all this dies down… maybe we could escape to a safe-house somewhere? Spend a few days together in the quiet."

"I would love that. Pick a country, I'll find a place." He drew her closer until she stood between his parted knees. "Once we've cleared our names we could settle somewhere," he offered, releasing her hand to settle his own hands on her hips. "Under different names, if you like. Have a few babies, grow vegetables, adopt a small menagerie of animals…"

"Or we could take over a floor in Stark's tower." She smirked at his grimace. "Lovely lab space, and Fury will have to stay in touch with Tony, if he intends on staying in the Avengers' good graces. You could be the SHIELD diplomat."

"Only if Pepper is my contact." His pained look doubtlessly had to do with the idea of working solely with Tony- and she couldn't blame him, really. "Though we never hashed out my whole dead alive thing."

"Should I be jealous?" she asked teasingly. She had no reason to be jealous of Pepper, who was bonded with Tony, after all, and it would be hypocritical of Jemma to be truly jealous of Phil's female friendships when Jemma herself had Fitz. "I'm sure she'll forgive you, Phil."

"I hope so, and no, there is no reason at all for you to be jealous. You're going to like Pepper, and I know she'll like you." The way he was stroking her sides was not at all conducive to actually _leaving_ the bedroom. "You can't help but impress, sweetheart."

"Hmm." She ran her fingertips over the scruff on his jawline, traced the curve of his lips. "Well, if we can't have a lovely morning in bed I insist on a shared shower. Come on."

"Well, if you _insist._"

* * *

Their shower saved neither time nor water, which did not surprise Phil in the least. It did result in a fierce desire for a nap once Jemma had finished with him, but the equally sleepy-eyed, contented look on her face was worth it.

That and the languor he felt was of the most pleasant type. "You are amazing," he informed her with a happy sigh, trailing kisses down her neck and across her shoulder. The water hitting his back was beginning to feel more cool than hot, but Jemma was pressed up against him, soft and warm. A pity that Nick really would burst in on them if they lingered for much longer, because it would be very nice to tuck his wife under the covers and soothe her back to sleep, skin to skin. "My sweet Jemma."

"Your sweet Jemma is going to have to wear a very high-necked blouse," she replied, sounding amused. "And trousers, because I can't risk stepping over an air vent and revealing the love bites on my thighs." He felt her nip at his own neck, her hands keeping him close. "Staking your claim, I think?"

He covered his stammered response by turning off the water and wrapping her in a towel. She was not angry, thankfully- she looked just as amused as she had sounded, and her overall expression was one of understanding. "I'm not married to a saint," she continued, droplets of water slipping down her face and neck, tracing over the dark marks he had left in his enthusiasm. "This has been difficult for you, I know."

There were no immediate words for that, not when she had been so brave and a part of him was stuck on the fact that he had failed to protect her in so many ways.

And there was the fact that, in truth, he didn't like the idea of other people leering at his wife, particularly not when she was vulnerable and scared.

"I'm sorry, Jem," he said eventually, brushing a thumb lightly over one particularly livid bruise on her neck. "I got a little carried away."

"No apologizing for that, Phil. I liked it." She began rubbing a towel over her hair, smiling in a way that communicated just how pleased she had been by the interlude. "And if there were pictures like that of you being sent around to a bunch of mystery women, I think I would have some issues as well." Her smile dimmed. "I'd rather have you be a bit clingy than angry at me."

"I'm not at all angry at you, Jemma." He wrapped his arms around her, gathering her and an assortment of towels close. "I love you so much, sweetheart, and you've turned a terrible situation to your advantage in the most brilliant way."

"Well, good. I'm glad you still want to touch me; it would be terrible if you didn't."

He hid his face against her damp hair, troubled that she might worry that he found her tainted in some way. "Why wouldn't I want to touch you? Keeping my hands off of you is a far greater struggle."

"You are sweet."

"To you."

"Yes, I suppose some people would argue otherwise."

He let her go reluctantly, at that, and they both began to prepare for the day. He stayed in her orbit as she applied what little make-up she wore and dressed, shrugging when she shot him an amused look.

"You watch me like I'm an art exhibit," she commented at one point, walking toward him in just the very distracting lingerie she had donned a few minutes previous. Crimson lace- the most daring thing he had seen her wear in months. "It's very flattering."

She took hold of his tie, still draped loosely around his neck, and began to tie it in quick, efficient movements. Before Jemma he had never really considered how intimate tying a tie could be, but now it was a move he understood very well. "I'm lucky enough to share my life and quarters with a gorgeous woman. I'm just making the most of every second." He laid an index finger lightly on the lace that curved over one hip, hoping she would be willing to let him strip it off of her that evening. "I like this."

She smiled as she tightened the knot just so, and rested her hands lightly against his chest. "I know. I like it, too."

He waited for her as she finished dressing, watching unashamedly as she pulled on tights, a warm, high-necked dress, and boots. "Well," she said finally, brushing invisible creases from the skirt, "I suppose we should face the day."

"We should." He took her arm in his as they left the room, walking at a sedate pace down the corridor toward Fury's office. "What genius do you plan on accomplishing today?"

"I'm hoping something regarding Agent 33 will turn up in the mix." She glanced up at him, determination written across her face. "I don't like seeing her penned up in the vault, Phil. If we can reverse what Whitehall did, even a little, that would be worthwhile."

"I agree." Remembering his discovery from the day before, he asked, "Did you put Audrey up to playing for her?"

"No, Audrey decided that herself. It hasn't caused a problem, has it?"

"From the glimpse I got it looked as if 33 were responding positively."

"Good."

Fury's expression, when they entered his office, was of restrained impatience. "About time. Your ploy worked, Agent Simmons. We've received everything from dead-drop instructions to base locations." He tossed his pen onto the desk, a flash of irritation crossing his face. "And the name of a mole at the Fridge who is now cooling her heels in a cell."

"But you still look displeased," Jemma said, her arm tense in his. "Why is that?"

"What we've gotten is immense, and it's certainly enough to take out a few heads- but not enough to take down the beast entirely."

"A crippling blow would hardly be a failure," Phil noted mildly, annoyed at the implication that Jemma's sacrifice was lacking in some way. "And the damage Skye's virus will do at their end is just beginning."

"True." Fury had evidently taken his words as the scold they were intended to be. He stood, straightening to his full height, and extended his hand to Jemma, who took it after a moment of hesitation. "You've saved untold lives, Agent. SHIELD thanks you- as do I."

"I'm pleased to serve," she replied, her voice quiet but honest. "I hope you get the information you're looking for. And if I might make a request?"

"I could hardly deny you at this point."

Phil figured that was Fury's way of not saying _I would be too scared to say no_.

"I would like Whitehall's research, please. All of it," she said firmly. "A loyal agent has been in the vaults for far too long."

"I'll make sure that you're granted full access." Fury eyed her in the same way he might consider a bomb he was hoping to defuse. "To that, and whatever else might come in."

"Thank you, sir." Jemma released his arm, taking a step toward the door. "I'll leave you to discuss strategy with Phil then, shall I?"

"One more thing." Nick shifted his weight, the move the closest thing Phil had seen to a display of nerves in years. "We've put your parents in protective custody," he said. "There was some indication that they might be used as against you. The rest of your family- as well as Agent Fitz's mother- are being watched, just in case."

She stilled, her gaze flicking to meet Phil's for a brief moment. "Any particular reason they were considering my parents, sir?"

"As best we can tell, one of the agents Sgt. Barnes suggested was actually a mole working for Talbot. Before he realized that the email was infected, he sent a copy to Talbot through secure channels."

"He was planning on abducting British citizens?" Phil asked skeptically. "He must have a crony in England."

"He does. Unfortunately, whoever Talbot has securing his systems caught the virus before it could do much damage, but we did get that piece of information."

"I'm glad of it. Thank you, sir."

Jemma was out the door before anyone could say anything else. "They will be safe?" Phil asked Nick, his voice hard-edged. "She doesn't need to deal with that as well."

"They are safe, though not very appreciative of their current state," Nick replied dryly. "See if your wife would be willing to stay with them for awhile, okay? They aren't fainting from fear, or anything, but they are being very uncooperative."

"Bring them here." Phil took one of the seats across the desk, not bothering to wait for Nick to sit back down. "Otherwise I go with her."

"You really want your in-laws wandering around the Playground?"

"No," Phil admitted. "But I also don't want Jemma alone out there, not with the way things are."

"Point." Nick did resume his seat, suddenly looking weary. "I've already dispatched a half a dozen teams to different hidden bases. The Fridge is under lockdown, and I sent Stark a message with the names of the three traitors in his tech department."

"Have you heard from Morse?"

"Briefly. She says that the damage to their systems is keeping them scrambling, and that as far as she knows they haven't figured out yet that we've received their information, or how we did it." He ran a hand over his jaw, still unshaven. Phil might have slept, but Nick most definitely had not. "And I gave the order to foul the water supply for the three bases she says are too well guarded to invade."

Phil caught his slight wince. Nick was not a fan of "that medieval shit," as he had once put it. Too slow and lingering a death for his comfort- and truthfully, for Phil's as well. "What can I do, Nick?"

"You can track down Rogers and see if either he or Barnes knows any of Rumlow's favorite places to hide. What little has come over the wire about him makes it pretty clear that he's on our trail, but damn if I can figure anything else out." He swiped several times across the screen of his tablet, irritation evident. "There- clearance for both you and Simmons."

"I'll see what we can find." Phil did not rise, discomforted as he was by Nick's obvious fatigue. Phil really hadn't slept that well at all- he had been too keenly attuned to every shift Jemma made throughout the night to do more than doze- but in comparison to Nick he was well-rested. "You just sent the 'I feel like bugging you' codes," he pointed out, trying to keep his tone mild. "You could have rousted me out of bed far earlier than this."

Nick shrugged. "I was handling it just fine, Phil. I might not have a soulmark of my own, but I've been around enough bonded pairs to know what they need after stress like Simmons has been through." His glare, when it came, felt more like a scold in the _I know what I'm doing_ sense. "Hell, Phil, you spent most of the evening yesterday circling her like a worried sheepdog. You've lost that edge, at least. Go talk with Rogers and Barnes, and make sure you check in with your wife on a regular basis."

"Why?"

"Because moping soulmates are of no use to me, Phil. Get the fuck out of my office."

For Nick, that was practically a sympathetic pat on the back.

* * *

By the time Jemma made her way to 33's cell, the information SHIELD had collected was already waiting tidily on her tablet. Without even opening the door she could hear faint strains of cello music from below, which pleased her. Audrey might well see things in Whitehall's notes that Jemma wouldn't, and even if she wasn't an agent, Fury never had gotten around to reestablishing the clearance levels that Phil had abolished during his tenure.

Not that Jemma knew of, at least. She figured this was something she would rather beg forgiveness for, at any rate.

She sat on the bottom step as Audrey continued to play, waiting for the piece to finish. 33 looked to be working on her sun salutations, flowing easily in and out of the deep stretches and balance postures. She was, Jemma noted, in tune with the music, which seemed like a very good sign.

Audrey might not have seen her enter, but she had surely heard the sound of the door opening and closing, because when the piece faded to an end she turned her head slightly to see who had joined them. "Jemma," she said with a small smile. "Good morning."

"Good morning." Jemma stood and made her way over to Audrey, nodding to 33 as she did so. The other woman merely raised a brow before folding herself into child's pose. "We've received some information that might help our friend, here," she explained as she settled to the ground beside Audrey's chair. "Hopefully it will include a name."

Jemma scrolled through the various files, her heart sinking as she saw the number of names before her. "It appears Whitehall pulled this trick on a number of people," she said through numb lips. "She could be any one of these women."

"Then we hope for pictures," Audrey replied, gently tucking her cello and bow back in their case before settling beside Jemma on the floor. "Bird by bird, as my father would have said."

Some files had pictures, some did not, and after the first few Audrey ran upstairs to fetch a notebook and a pencil to keep a list of the maybes. They did not skip a single name, not even the ones that appeared obviously masculine.

"Never can tell, these days," Audrey had said with smile.

They were nearly halfway through when Jemma's stomach growled audibly.

"Don't tell me Phil forgot to feed you."

It spoke to their level of distraction that morning that he had. "I think we both forgot about food," Jemma replied, rather astonished. She might forget to feed herself- been there, done that, as the saying went- but Phil had always been a stickler for three square meals a day, with the odd snack between, especially when it came to her. "What with this new flood of information, and all."

"And where has it come from?" Audrey asked curiously as she hefted her cello case. "Was there a mission I didn't know about?"

"Not really. We just gambled on men being willing to take risks for porn," Jemma responded lightly.

"Really?" Audrey gave her a doubtful look. "Surely it wasn't so simple."

"No," Jemma admitted, her voice soft. "It wasn't that simple."

Audrey looked as if she were about to inquire further, but then seemed to reconsider the idea. "Brunch it is," she said instead, taking Jemma's arm firmly. "And then we can find somewhere a bit sunnier to continue our research."

"Sunnier?"

"Somewhere with a window will work."

Audrey waved a goodbye to 33, and inspired by her example Jemma did as well. 33 hesitated before waving back in a tentative fashion.

May walked in on their meal, Skye following her. "Good," she said with what might have been a tinge of pleasure. "I want both of you in the gym in two hours."

Jemma exchanged a glance with Audrey, who looked startled. "Me?" Audrey asked. "I'm not an agent."

"Anyone who stays here on even a semi-regular basis needs to learn how to defend themselves. I don't want you depending only on your powers," May answered as she began to select a number of ingredients from the fridge and cabinets. "Skye will be there as well."

Skye shrugged as she dropped into one of the free chairs. "May says jump, I ask 'how high'," she muttered, peering closely at Jemma. "Are you doing okay?"

"As well as could be expected."

Audrey arched a delicate brow, stabbing at a piece of chicken in her salad with her fork. Jemma did not need to ask to know that Audrey was putting together various bits of information in her head, and that whatever answer she was coming up with was probably close to the truth. "Not that simple, hmmm?" was all she said, and pushed the plate of crostini she had prepared closer to Jemma.

Jemma recognized that move. That was a Phil move. Even a few weeks beforehand the reminder might have irritated her, but now she found herself amused by that little gesture. She took a piece, concealing her smile when Audrey nodded slightly.

"May is going to pound us into the floor, I hope you know," Skye said after a beat. It was obvious she had seen the entire little byplay, and equally obvious that something in it had soothed over some rough edge that had been present earlier. She eased back into her chair, her resigned expression more that of good-will than anything else. "I'll go ahead and warn you- she doesn't approve of using powers when bodily force will do."

"Probably for the best," Audrey replied peaceably. "I'd have you out like a light, otherwise."

Skye took it like the joke it was. "Not if I quake the walls down around your ears first, band nerd."

And there, reflected in one of the glass doors of the cabinets, Jemma saw it: a genuine smirk appearing on May's face. It was gone by the time May turned around, of course, but the way she caught Jemma's gaze with a sharp look made it clear that May knew, somehow.

"Well, I don't have powers, so it's for the best." Jemma took a quick bite of the bread she held, averting her eyes from May.

"FYI," Skye told Audrey in a deadpan voice, "Jemma fights dirty."

"Skye!"

"She has the look," Audrey replied with a far too serious nod. "Brass knuckles?"

"ICER shots to the gut and fire extinguishers to the skull."

"It was only once, for heaven's sake," Jemma huffed in exasperation.

"Almost twice." A wicked grin appeared on Skye's face. "I seem to recall you nearly whacking AC with a fire extinguisher when Lorelei was running amok."

"He could have been possessed; we just didn't know." Jemma gave them both her primmest look. "Phil said I did the right thing."

"Later, maybe. At the time his reaction was more along the lines of 'What the hell, Jemma?'" The last part was an exaggerated, but nonetheless accurate, impersonation of Phil. "Good thing he has fast reflexes."

Luckily, Audrey was snickering over this revelation. "He only made the mistake of trying to sneak up on me once," she said through her laughter. "I clocked him on the head with his own briefcase."

"So what you're telling me is that AC is drawn to violent women," Skye replied slyly, and it should not have been nearly as funny as it was- and perhaps it wouldn't have been, if Phil hadn't walked in the door at that exact moment, only to find that the eyes of all were on him and everyone except for May was suddenly laughing.

"I'm afraid to ask what stories you've been telling about me," he said dryly, but laid a gentle hand on Jemma's shoulder and bent to kiss her brow. "But I probably deserve it."

"Bit egotistical to think we were laughing at you, AC."

"What else was I supposed to think?" He took the seat beside Jemma, his hand coming to rest surreptitiously on her knee under the table. "May, have you spoken with Fury?"

"Off and on since early this morning." They exchanged a look that Jemma couldn't quite read, but the laughter dying around the table signalled that the other two women had noticed it, as well.

Phil turned his gaze back to Jemma, his hand squeezing her knee lightly. "Jem, about your parents."

"They're making a fuss, aren't they?" she asked, knowing that if his news were worse he would have pulled her aside. "They do think I'm- well, not this. Being black-bagged probably has thrown them for a loop."

"What was your cover, Jem?" Skye asked with interest.

"Corporate party planner," Jemma replied with a roll of her eyes. "Don't laugh, Skye. That cover was assigned to me. I didn't choose it."

"I'm just imagining the parties you would throw." Skye drummed her fingers on the table, grinning. "Go on, ignore me."

"Fury wants to send you to them," he said slowly, and she could see instantly that he was _not_ comfortable with that plan. "Alone. With the way things are…"

"Couldn't they come here?" Audrey asked, and raised a brow when they both looked at her. "I'll chaperone when Jemma needs to do sciencey things, and Billy will make sure their ID cards don't allow them access to the classified areas."

"Not ideal, but I admit it would be better than splitting up the team," Phil said with a slight sigh, and gave Jemma a questioning look.

There wasn't a chance in hell Fury would allow Phil to accompany her if she left the base to reassure her parents. "This could be long-term," she pointed out, feeling like the worst daughter in the world when her first instinct was _oh god, no_. "Or longer than we like, at least."

"I know."

"AC meets the in-laws," Skye muttered, sounding rather gleeful at the prospect. Jemma supposed that _someone_ should get some humor out of this situation, at least. She had kept the two major facets of her life separated for so long that she couldn't help but dread the coming clash.

"My parents hated him," Audrey muttered back. "Never did figure out why."

"Awesome."

Not awesome, as far as Jemma was concerned. When her mother disliked someone, the chill in the air was almost palpable, and when her father disliked someone, the effect was even worse. They had both liked Fitz, but their disappointment that he hadn't been Jemma's bondmate had been fierce.

"We'll make it through," Phil murmured comfortingly, stroking her knee. "But they don't have to come if you're opposed."

"No, bring them," she sighed. "And then, once they settle down, maybe they'll be willing to hide in a safe-house."

Jemma thought the chances of that were slim, but then again, she doubted that either of her parents had ever come up against someone like Fury before. Worst case scenario, she would just lock the trio in a room and let them cut conversational shreds off of each other.

* * *

For all the turmoil that the virus had caused her, Jemma was glad when, as the next few days rolled by, Hydra cells were shut down in a pleasingly efficient fashion, one after the other. It would have been better if the whole operation had just imploded, but she would take what she could get.

Jemma had made it clear to Fury that Skye and Bucky alone would be receiving whatever accolades were due, and he was good on his word. Men and women who had formerly looked at the hacker and assassin askance were suddenly much more at ease around them, and in response Skye herself seemed to relax. The tremors on base had, for the moment, ebbed to near non-existence. As far as public knowledge went, Jemma had never been involved.

Fitz was the only person to whom Jemma relayed the entire story.

"_You did what?_"

"It was damage control, Fitz," she had replied with a shrug as he gaped. "It did a lot of damage, and it made me feel like I was in control."

"_Shit._"

It meant that every time he saw her for roughly the next twenty-four hours Fitz threw his hands into the air in exasperation, but Jemma didn't particularly care. It was rather funny, as far as she was concerned.

And now here she was, waiting in the hangar for her parents to arrive with her husband at her side, still aching from her session with May that morning where Natasha had slammed her against the mats.

"That will teach you not to get distracted by the peanut gallery," Natasha had said dryly, and then grinned wickedly at Skye and Audrey. "Speaking of."

"I apologize in advance," Jemma said, part of her mind longingly considering how nice it would be to soak in a hot bath. "For my parents."

"You think it's going to be that bad?" Phil asked her, his brow furrowing. She watched as he straightened his tie and then fastened the buttons on his suit jacket. "I know I'm older than you, and a member of what they probably consider a very shady organization, but-"

He paused. "Never mind. You're right; I'm just the jackass who dragged you into danger and ruined your good name."

"Well, maybe I'll just take a new name."

He smiled at that. "My name is even more tarnished, sweetheart."

"Then we both take a new name." She slipped her hand into his, their fingers intertwining. "Like you suggested. That's always a possibility."

"Something to consider, definitely."

They both quieted as the small quinjet landed, and she briefly considered disentangling her hand from his, if only because she could feel her palms sweating. Silly to be scared of her parents, after everything else she had been through. "Phil, you remember when Audrey first arrived and everything went briefly to hell?"

He shot her a startled glance. "Yes."

"This might be worse."

"I really hope you're just being hyperbolic."

"So do I."

Trip had been sent to escort her parents from their former safe-house, which had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time. Everyone loved Trip, after all. Jemma was fairly certain that if she took the time to sit down and calculate why, she would come up with a new theorem for the science behind likeability.

And at first glance it did seem to have paid off. Her parents disembarked the quinjet, appearing to be conversing in a very cordial manner with Trip. Then they spotted her.

Then they spotted her grip on Phil's hand.

"Oh," she clearly heard her mother say, turning to Trip with a disappointed look on her face. "I thought it was you."

"In all honesty, I would prefer a son-in-law more like Trip, as well," Phil admitted quietly.

"Hush, Phil. What in the world would I do with all that optimism?" she tried to joke.

Before he could reply her parents came into hearing range, rushing up to embrace her and casting Phil assessing looks. "You haven't been very truthful with us, Jemma," her mother said in a mildly censuring tone.

"SHIELD is very fussy about agents not breaking the multitude of non-disclosure agreements they have on file." Jemma tried to say it lightly, and as inoffensively as possible. "I'll explain what I can later. For now, this is Phil." She didn't need to force a smile when she turned back to him; the expression that had been stiff eased into true emotion. "My soulmate, and my husband."

The greeting they both gave Phil was so excessively polite that Jemma was almost offended on his behalf. Manners were second-nature in her family, but an excess of manners inevitably meant they were displeased in some way. That displeasure could have been with her- by this point they had most likely heard, in one way or another, that their daughter was a wanted criminal. And they had been kidnapped, which Jemma knew for a fact was distressing.

She had the feeling that she would be getting quite the lecture once they were alone. Thank heavens their passes would restrict them to only a small portion of the base; she would be needing somewhere to escape to eventually.

"So," her mother said with expertly concealed impatience. "Shall we have a tour?"

"A short tour," Phil agreed amicably, his hand coming to rest against Jemma's back. "Follow me."

And a short tour it was. There were very few locations that would be safe for them to visit, after all, and Jemma could see from her parents' expressions that they were both chafing at the odd circumstances and the invisible but very present restraints they had been put under.

Phil's phone rang as they entered general living quarters, and after giving Jemma an apologetic look he stepped almost out of hearing range. Far enough, Jemma noted, that her parents would likely think that he would be unable to hear a quiet conversation.

"Jemma," her father said in the measured tone that meant anger and had never failed to scare the hell out of her as a girl, "we need to have a very serious discussion."

They were looking at her like they might a child. "I realize this is a dreadful inconvenience," she said smoothly, "but it was done to keep you safe, I promise."

"If you hadn't stepped outside of the law it wouldn't have been necessary." Her mother glanced around them in as casual a manner as possible, and it was at that moment that Jemma realized how entirely ignorant of the situation they truly were. "Are you being kept against your will?" her mother asked in a whisper. "We know a very good lawyer, Jemma. I'm sure he could make some kind of deal for you if you decided to leave these people."

Jemma highly doubted it, even if she had been so inclined. "I'm afraid that's not a possibility, Mum. Let me show you your quarters."

"Jemma-"

"I won't be leaving my husband or my friends." She held open the door to their rooms, continuing to hold it even after it became clear that they had no intention of following her any further. "I've been doing what I think is right for years, now, and I won't give up over some misunderstanding."

Her parents exchanged glances heavy with meaning. "Cult," her father said in a grim, hushed tone. "I told you."

Oh, hell.


	7. with the fuses blown

If pressed, Phil would have to admit that he did not like his in-laws. This was partially because their view of the international stage was painfully civilian (not that he had expected anything else, and to take them to task for it would be unfair), and partially because Jemma, though dealing wonderfully well with the strain of suddenly being the black sheep daughter, was looking rather pinched around the edges.

"They think we're in a cult," she hissed to him when they had a brief moment alone during what was becoming an increasingly long evening. "A cult, Phil."

"I heard," he replied dryly, resisting the urge to sigh when Mrs. Simmons rounded a corner and strode toward them in a determined fashion. Fate may have inscribed his handwriting on her daughter's skin, but it was obvious that both the Simmonses had decided he was the devil incarnate.

"Don't tell them what room we're in," he murmured into Jemma's ear before her mother came close enough to hear. The last thing they needed were her parents pounding on the door at all hours.

She shot him a horrified glance, her thoughts apparently treading the same path. "Mum, you've traveled so much today, wouldn't you like an early night?" Jemma said in a placating tone, casually stepping between him and his mother-in-law. "I know this is strange, but-"

"But we are going to have a chat, with your father," Mrs. Simmons said firmly, speaking to Jemma as if she were less than a rational (and amazing) adult. "Now, Jemma."

Phil briefly considered stepping back and letting Jemma handle her own parents- they were undermining her enough without him stepping in and doing the same- but the look on her face decided him. "Jemma has had a long day, as well."

This did not endear him to her mother. "My daughter-"

"My wife needs to sleep."

He caught a glimpse of Jemma rolling her eyes, but she still placed her hand in his and gave her mother a forced smile. "It has been a long day. I'll speak with you both in the morning while we have our tea."

She was still wearing that forced smile right up until the moment he locked their bedroom door behind them, at which point her face went utterly blank.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "You looked like you needed rescuing."

The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, the expression far more genuine than anything he had seen for the past few hours. "I did," she admitted. "Thank you. And I think it is best if we save _that_ conversation for a new day."

He stripped off his suit jacket and carefully hung it up, considering his next words. "So this cult of ours…"

"Oh, Phil."

"They haven't met Fury yet, so I guess that makes me the big bad."

"And I your adoring handmaiden?" she asked wryly.

He backed her up against the bed, keeping a close watch on her face lest his teasing mood trigger something. "I'm very persuasive."

She sat heavily on the edge of the mattress at that, laughing so hard it was nearly a cackle. "I just hope they never find out about New York," she said finally, clutching his tie in her hands and pulling him closer. "I would hate if they thought I had been wrangled into some kind of messiah cult."

He sighed, his good humor gone. "I hadn't even considered that."

"Oh, don't worry, Phil. If they make too big a fuss I'll just tell them you coerced me to the side of light with all those amazing orgasms." Her smile was so bright and bubbly it instantly brought him back to the way she had looked when he had said her words- and the expression on her face when they had woken up together that first morning in Greece. "Their shock will give me enough time to flee the scene."

"Jemma-"

She laid one finger lightly against his lips. "They'll never understand," she said gently, and truthfully. "The best we can hope for is to soothe them enough that they'll be willing to move into a safe-house again. And really, Phil, they have reason to be upset. First I spend nearly a decade lying to them, and then we rip them away from everything they know. We know we're keeping them safe, but as far as they're concerned we're criminals."

"I don't like it when people hurt you."

Her face softened. "I know, Phil. But you can't save me from everyone, and the worst they'll do is yell and posture."

He could feel that tic below his right eye starting up again. "Can't say I'm a fan of that either, Jemma."

She smirked, the small gesture somehow both prim and maddening. "Only because I've also ensnared you in a web of sexual pleasure."

"Oh, I would happily be the acolyte to your high priestess."

She squeaked in surprise when he pushed her back to the center of the mattress, lifting her head to watch him as he undid the fastenings on her jeans. "Are you about to worship me?" she asked with a cheeky grin, surprise melting away to amusement. "If so, a bad day is about to take a very nice turn."

"Would you like your worship with or without purple prose?" he asked, drawing off her jeans and tossing them, along with her shoes and socks, to the floor. He drew his hands slowly down the skin of her inner thighs, enjoying the way she shivered. "I have a lot of things I could say about the taste of your skin or the lovely weight of your breasts."

She reached up, tugging a pillow toward her and tucking it under her head. "You're already very talkative during lovemaking," she pointed out teasingly. "At times so earthy you've made me blush."

"I like it when you blush. And I find you very inspiring." The skin of her stomach was definitely inspiring, so much so that he bent to swirl his tongue in the well of her navel, feeling her squirm underneath him. "Perhaps I ramble a bit."

Not something he had been guilty of before Jemma, or even in the very early days of their physical relationship. There had always been that little bit of restraint that had him curbing his tongue, even when a near climax threatened to make him lose all composure. Loose lips did sink ships, as the saying went, and Phil had not been the type of agent to allow himself even that one moment of unguarded speech.

He had learned differently, for Jemma. He had never yet found himself babbling code phrases or coordinates mid-thrust (though she knew those anyway, so why would he?), but disjointed praises about how sweet she was, how much he loved the feel of her legs wrapped around him- all that, and far more intimate things, spilled from his lips.

She extended a hand, laying gentle fingers against his cheek. "I'd rather have my husband than an acolyte any day of the week," she said softly, and then paused, a small smile appearing. "Do husbands ever engage in a bit of worship?"

"This husband does."

* * *

Natasha slammed her onto her back, again.

"_Oooph._" Jemma took a moment to catch her breath, grateful that May at least allowed mats. "This is truly unfair, Natasha. You have the definite advantage."

"Yes. But you're building muscle memory with every day of practice, and eventually that will be useful."

Jemma didn't particularly like the fact that Natasha saw her probable capture as acknowledged fact. "Could you throw Audrey or Skye around now, please?"

"We're almost done." Natasha extended a hand, and nodded when Jemma gave her a wary look. "Come on."

She trusted Natasha, but couldn't help but suspect that this was another training exercise. Still, she accepted the help up.

Everything seemed to move very fast, after that. One second she was rising to her feet, and the next Natasha pulled her off balance, as if preparing to toss Jemma over her hip and back onto the floor.

And yet, somehow Jemma was propelled into a rolling dive, only to spring to her feet to find that Natasha was sprawled on her stomach. It was the tiny, victorious smile Natasha shot her and the audible gasps from the doorway that made Jemma realize that she had just been set up.

Her parents had just seen her toss the Black Widow- not that they knew Natasha for who or what she was, Jemma realized belatedly as she took in their shocked and scandalized expressions. In any case, they had just seen her do something they had probably never expected her to do.

They left hurriedly, most likely because May was leveling her best glare at them, and Jemma stared down at Natasha, feeling some very mixed emotions and trying to ignore the way Skye was snickering a few feet away.

"That looked _amazing_," Skye said, holding out her hand for a high five. Audrey, who was closest, indulged her, a sly smile on her own lips. "It actually looked like you threw her to the ground."

"But I didn't," Jemma said glumly as Natasha rose to her feet.

"No, but even a week ago you wouldn't have been able to pull off that dive." Natasha shrugged, still smiling. "Skye, your turn."

Jemma padded wearily over to May and Audrey, certain that she would shortly have a nice new crop of bruises on her back. Phil had winced over the ones she already had just the night before, brushing his lips carefully over the ones dotting her shoulders, down the trail of her spine to pay his attentions to the bruises on her bum. That part had been nice, even if her method of obtaining the bruises had not.

"I suppose I should join them for breakfast," Jemma said with a quiet sigh. She hadn't expected them to be up quite this early, or to dare to walk the halls without a guide, but she had underestimated them, apparently.

"Some parents never quite come to terms with the fact that their children grow up."

Jemma blinked in surprise, turning her attention to Audrey. "Personal experience?"

"Even after I joined the philharmonic, my parents asked me what my back-up plan was." Audrey's smile turned a bit bitter. "And they weren't satisfied with teaching. Do you know how many orchestras and symphonies go out of business in this country? I do, because my mother managed to track down every news item and email them to me."

"Before this, my parents thought I was a corporate party planner." Jemma and Audrey exchanged a glance heavy with understanding. "I received many, many lectures on how I was wasting the education they had paid for."

"Parents."

May had been listening in silence. She raised a brow when both Jemma and Audrey looked toward her. "My one misstep was joining SHIELD," she said after a moment. "My mother wanted to groom me to take over her own organization."

"Working for parents has its pros and its cons," Audrey replied with a nod. "Again, personal experience."

"We would have killed each other before the end of the first month." May quirked a small smile. "She liked and respected Director Carter, though, so SHIELD was… acceptable."

"Which reminds me- I need to speak with Bucky. We still owe your mother for her help." Jemma added it to her ever-growing mental to-do list. "And I should go clean up."

"Jemma?"

She turned, halfway to the door, at May's voice. "Yes?"

"I can think of more than a few times when you saved our collective asses. Remember that."

May turned away before Jemma could respond. She could feel the heat in her cheeks as she began to blush. May thought she was brave. The Cavalry credited her with saving their lives _more than once_.

That good mood carried her through her shower, all the way to her parents' door, where they answered her knock with new wariness in their eyes.

"So," she said brightly, for once not needing to force cheer. "Tea?"

* * *

"What are the two of you doing?"

Two very well preserved pieces of history stared innocently back at him, feet propped up on the coffee table in front of them. "Keeping an eye on the situation," Barnes said, tilting his head toward the screen. "I'm kind of fond of the dame."

The dame in question was Jemma, and Phil briefly wondered if she knew what they were up to. He guessed not, though the fact that she had chosen that room instead of their quarters or another spot without cameras was interesting. "What do you think they're going to do, pull out a gun?"

"When I told my dad I didn't want the after-school job he picked out, he took a belt to me," Barnes replied far too calmly. "Told me I'd earn my keep or sleep on the street. This is just a precaution."

"Sound's off," Steve offered. "If that helps."

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, feeling an oncoming headache. "Anything I should know?"

"Just some forceful hand gestures and pacing on her father's part." Barnes slung one arm along the back of the couch, fingertips touching Steve's shoulder lightly. "And she just smiles, like Patience on a monument." He caught Steve's glance and shrugged. "I read."

"Uh huh."

Telling them to scram would be a waste of breath. "Did you look over the file I sent you?"

Barnes raised a brow, a look of dry amusement on his face. "The one compiled by a woman so terrifying that Barton paled when he saw who it was from? Yes, yes I did."

"Mrs. May has… a reputation."

"Obviously. And apparently she wants my blood?" Barnes shrugged when he saw Steve's pained expression. "Don't worry, Punk. She'll get her due- but Jemma is the only person coming near me with a needle, understand?"

"She'll probably want more than one vial," Phil warned him, knowing his wife all too well.

"I figured. She can have a few." Barnes removed his arm from the back of the couch and leaned forward, shuffling through the papers on the table. "As for Madame May's intel, I think she's right. Rumlow's probably gone to ground somewhere in the mountains." Barnes paused. "That's my instinct, anyway."

Phil sat on the arm of a nearby armchair, mentally making a list of all the nearest mountain ranges. "Any clue on why he would be coming for us, other than the usual SHIELD versus Hydra bullshit?"

"Could be a number of reasons. By now he'll know that you have me, but he's probably heard about the other high-powered assets you have around here. Skye, maybe even the dame who plays havoc with the electricity."

"Audrey," Steve told him quietly.

"Audrey. Thanks. Or maybe he got a certain email and he thought he might as well take advantage of the emotional turmoil." Barnes shook his head when Steve gave him a questioning look. "Not a chance in hell I'm showing you that email, Punk."

Steve glanced at Phil before looking back to his soulmate. "Okay."

"Basically, he smells blood in the water." Barnes flipped through the file again. "And it's not like he's a Hydra loyalist."

"You think not?" Phil kept his gaze trained on the feed. Jemma's smile was beginning to look a bit tired. Should he interrupt at some point? Call her cell and ask if she needed a reason to leave? Maybe he would, near lunch, if only to remind her the option was there.

"I think his loyalties are flexible. He's not the kind of man to stick with the losing side, if he sees it coming- and my guess is that he's heard about Hydra's situation by now, and will conveniently forget to answer his phone if they call."

"Better than nothing." Phil considered this bit of information, and found himself thinking about the day when Clint had brought home a scrappy Russian assassin with his handwriting across her stomach. Rumlow was no Natasha, that was for certain- Natasha was loyal to a fault- but perhaps it would be worth enlisting him. Keeping enemies close would be reason enough, he suspected. "Could he be turned?"

"I think he could be tempted," Barnes replied honestly. "Hydra's dead in the water, even if they haven't realized it yet. I wouldn't turn your back on him, but he could do your dirty business well enough."

The expression on Steve's face clearly told how he felt about that idea. "This is the moment when I object and you call me a hypocrite, right?" he asked Barnes dryly, who patted him on the shoulder.

"I would never pass up the chance to read you the riot act."

* * *

"Jemma, sit back down."

Jemma froze, bristling at her father's order. "We need more tea," she said in the calmest tone she could muster. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"No one is leaving this room until you come to reason," he replied sternly, and she gave in to the impulse to roll her eyes.

"Your definition of reason," she pointed out. "We'll be here until the next ice age. I'll be back."

She lingered outside the door, quietly pressing the intercom button that would allow her to hear their conversation. Not very polite, she knew, but Jemma wasn't feeling particularly polite.

"-think she's pregnant, do you?" her mother was asking worriedly. "Bringing her home…"

"Given the charges against her, I doubt she'll ever come home again. Don't fret, Olivia. Between giving evidence and her obvious instability she'll be treated kindly."

"If there is a baby-"

"Adoption."

"Really, John, I think-"

Jemma slapped the intercom button again, gritting her teeth. Maybe she would just lock the door and go pound her fists against a punching bag. Or track down Phil and work off her frustration in a far more pleasant manner.

"Problems?"

Audrey stood at the other end of the hall with her cello case, eyeing her with an assessing glance. Jemma had to admit that she probably looked as mad as she felt, possibly even a shade murderous. "My parents are doing their best to convince me to turn myself in," she replied bitterly. "And discussing what to do with my non-existent child."

"They really fell for the 'SHIELD as criminals' talk, didn't they?"

"Yes, but they also think I've been brainwashed by a cult."

Audrey stared at her a moment before laughing incredulously. "Was it the glassy-eyed stare that tipped them off?"

"Audrey-"

"Right, bad joke." She moved closer, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I could speak with them, if you think that would help."

"I honestly don't think that it would."

"Because I am automatically a member of the cult, or because I look shifty?"

"The former."

"Right." Audrey leaned back against the wall. "Go run your errand. I can make sure they stay in one place, at least."

"_Thank you_."

Jemma hurried to the kitchen, not entirely sure why she was so intent on rushing back to her parents other than her feeling that left alone they would do something unwise. Like find a phone and call the police or their long-suffering attorney, perhaps. Even if they couldn't convince someone to believe them, the possibility of the signal being hijacked was very real.

Audrey was still in place when she returned with another pot of tea and a package of biscuits. "Quiet," Audrey said with a shrug. "I'll be on my way, unless you want backup…?"

"No, thank you. Are you playing for 33 again?" Audrey nodded, and Jemma pursed her lips as she considered the day ahead of her. "After lunch, perhaps we could keep going over the possible names with her, see if anything rings a bell."

"Fine with me. Your parents?"

"By then I might have locked them in a closet."

"Sounds like a valid response."

Jemma marched back into the room, determined to turn the situation to her own advantage, or at the very least to give her parents a spirited fight. "Before you speak," she said pleasantly, pouring them all fresh cups of tea, "let me make it very clear that I have no intention of turning myself in to anyone, and even if I were pregnant- which I am not- you would not have any say in anything concerning that child. Up to and including the color of the nursery."

"Jemma-"

"I realize that you are completely ignorant of what is really going on behind the scenes, in a global sense," she said, employing her sweetest smile, "but that is no reason to be foolish about this."

"The papers have made events quite clear," her father replied, not a hint of give in his voice. "I don't think you quite understand what we went through once it became known that our daughter was a wanted criminal."

"Your father was sacked. Friends and acquaintances alike ignore us wherever we go- except for the ones who want inside gossip," her mother added, her voice bitter. "You have to fix this, Jemma."

Jemma really was quite tired of being told to fix things, even if she was very good at it. "I am, though not in the way you expect." All pleasantness gone, she sat across the table and faced them with all the gravity she possessed. "Do you want to know what would happen if I turned myself in?" she asked rhetorically. "Best case scenario I spend the rest of my life in a high security prison after betraying friends, colleagues, and the husband I love dearly. Worst case scenario- and the far more likely one- some agency, government or otherwise, tortures every scrap of information I have out of me, and then puts a bullet in my brain and buries me in an unmarked grave. Right next to the both of you, most likely, because they will either use you as bait or they will assume I've told you valuable intel, and I promise you that torture is not nearly as clean or endurable as it looks in films."

Both of her parents looked rather green, which pleased Jemma in a dark kind of way. "SHIELD does good work," she continued. "We make mistakes, but we rectify them. And I believe that the world is safer because of us."

Her mother chuckled nervously. "Jemma… aren't you being a little dramatic?"

"A Hydra agent once stripped me naked, tied me to a chair, and tortured me with live wires," Jemma replied coolly. "I have seen things that you have never even imagined, and in no way am I dramatizing the situation."

She stood in the silence that followed, deciding that tea time was over for the moment. "You can find your way back to your quarters, I'm sure. I would recommend not making any calls- I was also being quite serious about your fate outside of SHIELD's protection."

Striding confidently out of the room was such an excellent feeling that she continued it all the way down the hall, luxuriating in the natural high until she rounded a corner and caught a glimpse inside the room to her right.

Steve and Bucky looked back at her guiltily, neither bothering to hide which security feed was on the screen.

"Listening, were you?"

"No, just watching, doll. Keeping an eye on things."

Jemma glanced at the screen, taking in her parents as they held a silent, if energetic, conversation. "Well," she said finally, "come on, then."

"Needles?" Bucky asked glumly.

"For both of you."

* * *

Jemma's parents certainly seemed more subdued at dinner, Phil thought, and Jemma herself looked rather triumphant- but then, she had managed to get blood samples from both Steve and Barnes, which doubtlessly accounted for at least a part of her good mood.

"Any problems?" he asked her quietly as she put the finishing touches on the salad she was making.

"More of the same." She glanced behind her quickly, taking in the terse crowd around the table. A small group tonight, sans the Avengers. "Did Nat tell you about the trick she played this morning?"

"No. Do I need to pay someone off?"

She did smile at that. "She put on a show in front of my parents, making it look like I threw her."

He felt a sudden warm surge of feeling for Natasha. "That was nice of her."

"My parents looked at me like I had stabbed a knife in her heart," she informed him, but she was still smiling in a way that told him she was beginning to see the humor in the situation. "She scrubbed it from the security feed before Skye could make a copy, though."

"That is disappointing."

Phil was hoping that between food and a glass or two of wine everyone would relax, though that did not prove to be the case. Trip topping up the Simmonses' wine glasses on a regular basis seemed to have more of an effect, which was surely helped by the fact that they obviously liked him best of everyone at the table.

"So," his mother-in-law asked politely, turning her gaze to Skye, who returned the gaze warily. "You work with Jemma?"

Skye looked to be struggling with the urge to reply sarcastically. "Yep. Jemma's great."

Her somewhat flat delivery probably had more to do with the situation than any lingering ill-feelings she might have. The quick look of commiseration she shot Jemma when neither parent was looking confirmed that. "Saved my life a few times," Skye continued. "And she and AC are a good pair." She shot Phil a mischievous look. "AC's just liked a father to me."

Olivia and John exchanged a look. "How nice," Olivia said.

Phil had the feeling that this line of discussion would not play out as Skye had intended. "Well-"

"Agent Coulson cares about his team," Trip interjected, his voice so earnest that even Olivia and John looked swayed. "Really inspires loyalty."

Wrong words. Trip saw his mistake immediately and began to back-pedal. "I mean-"

Skye interrupted him. "Not in a weird kind of way. A fatherly kind of way. A non-weird fatherly kind of way."

Under the table Jemma's hand clamped down hard on his thigh. When he slid a glance to her he saw that her lips were pressed tightly together, as if she were about to laugh or, quite possibly, scream.

"And what do you think?" John asked Audrey, who froze with a forkful of salad halfway to her lips.

"Oh. I'm not a member of the team." Audrey placed her laden fork back on her plate quickly, ignoring the sliver of cucumber that dropped onto her lap. "I'm just a musician."

Thank goodness Bruce was with Stark at the moment. The expression on Audrey's face might have set him off.

"I play the cello," Audrey said as heavy silence fell. "Just a guest here, really."

"And what do you think of our son-in-law?" Olivia asked her, looking as if she had decided Audrey might be her key to getting the information she needed.

"Is this really appropriate supper conversation?" Jemma asked, still gripping his leg.

"Listening to others praise your husband is inappropriate?"

"It is when you use polite discourse as an interrogation tactic."

"Phil is very nice," Audrey blurted out, giving Skye a look that clearly read _save me_. "Is now, always was."

Olivia honed in on that immediately. "So you've known him for a while?"

"Years."

"Old friends?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh?"

Olivia really was quite skilled at this. Perhaps Phil would recommend that Nick hire her as an interrogator. "We used to date," he said calmly, patting Jemma's hand under the table. "Skye, please pass the salt."

His in-laws looked rather scandalized. Whatever they might have said, however, was forestalled by the klaxons blaring to life throughout the facility.

Even Audrey was too well-trained at that point to remain seated. Within seconds everyone was on their feet, save for the Simmonses, who just looked bewildered. "Trip, get them out," he snapped, automatically dialing Nick's number. "Audrey, go with them."

There was no answer from Nick, but Natasha and Clint did come running through the door, weapons in hand. "We're evacuating," Clint informed them, his voice grim. "The Playground is surrounded. Omega protocol."

"Fury?"

"Sent him out the back."

One of the many secret exits, then. No time to go for Lola, or gather possessions- time only to grab his people and go.

Jemma sprinted past them toward the door, Audrey at her heels. Cursing, he followed. "Not that way!"

"We have to get 33!"

"Jem-"

"We can leave Cal to whoever is outside, but I'm not leaving her."

He adjusted his pace to keep up with them, knowing from the looks on their faces that they would not be accepting no for an answer. One of them he might have managed to drag away, but two? He was outnumbered, and badly.

"Get the others out," he yelled back to Clint, and followed them down the long hall, under the cover of flickering lights and siren screams.


	8. the calendar requests

Phil was already punching in the code for Vault D by the time she and Audrey skidded to a stop beside him. "We will be having a discussion after this is all over," he told her fiercely, his expression so stern that she immediately frowned in response. She knew better than to think this was Phil trying to keep her under his thumb- this was his version of panic, pure and simple. "About not running _toward_ danger."

"We've had that discussion before," she replied, pushing past him to hasten down the stairs. "You say, 'Jemma, never jump out of a fucking plane again', and I say 'So sorry, Phil', and then-"

"I'm really beginning to understand your dynamic," Audrey interrupted. "How do you open this damn thing?"

The screen was still opaque for the moment, and sound-proof. Jemma quickly selected the option that would reveal the cell, and as the screen cleared she found 33 standing barefoot near the barrier, her gaze cast upward toward the ceiling. "Time to go!" Jemma called out cheerfully, silently approving as Phil drew his ICER as a precaution. Not that she thought 33 would attack, but… there was a chance.

33 took a wary step forward, and then another, until she had cleared the threshold between them. "They're here."

"Someone is, definitely." Audrey edged toward her, the move more confident than it should have been. "Will you come with us?"

33- and how was she _still_ nameless, after days of combing through Whitehall's files?- took another step forward. "I don't want to comply."

Jemma exchanged a look with Audrey, guessing the other woman's face was a mirror of the own mix of emotions surely on her face: grief and a good dose of nerves, mainly. "You can stay, or you can go in another direction." Jemma stepped to the side, pulling Phil with her to open a clear path to the door. "You don't have to come with us. We're just offering you a choice."

33 stepped closer, her expression grave. She turned, rather surprisingly, to Phil. "You'll shoot me if I comply."

Audrey's mouth dropped open in horror. "Phil will not-"

33 waved her hand in a sharp motion, her gaze still fixed on Phil. Belatedly, Jemma realized that her words had not been said in fear, but had been a kind of order. "If I comply," she said again, more slowly, "you will shoot me."

Up until that moment Phil had been wary, but Jemma saw the shift, at those words: from caution to understanding. "I promise," he replied, his voice gentle. "You won't hurt anyone."

The quick grin she flashed them was so unlike the quiet woman Jemma was accustomed to that she was momentarily shocked. "Perhaps some," 33 responded, stepping forward to stand slightly behind Audrey and to her right, like some kind of knight errant. "Let's run."

Jemma spared a moment to feel guilty about the fact that 33 was shoeless and wore plain cotton scrubs. After they were done running from danger and settled in a safe-house she would give the woman a thorough examination, she resolved. And then she would let Phil scold her, because that would make him feel better even if it was absolutely useless.

She knew where the secret exits were- and where the secret secret exits were, and she had rolled her eyes hard at that one when Phil had first mentioned that _yes_, there was a difference- but they were heading away from all of those, which forced her to include that there were secret secret secret exits hidden away on this base, and after Phil finished his scolding perhaps she would start up one of her own, because this was _ridiculous_.

"Phil-"

"Trust me, Jemma."

Infuriating man.

Jemma was feeling out of breath after sprinting what felt like the length of the base. In comparison, Audrey was barely breathing hard, and she was the one to ask the question Jemma had nearly spat out. "Are we really headed toward the front door?"

"Not exactly," Phil replied, sounding almost distracted, and detoured down one of the lesser used corridors. "Stay close."

'Stay close' entailed following nearly at his heels through a bewildering array of twists and turns which Jemma hadn't even known existed. The architect behind this section of the base had used some very clever tricks and illusions to conceal what was, in effect, a secret passage that only those looking closely enough would be able to find.

He stopped, suddenly, holding out an arm to keep anyone from flying past him. Jemma listened intently, having barely stopped herself from running straight into his back. Footsteps and indistinct voices to the right of them, out of sight. Militant, without a doubt, but whether that meant Talbot's men or a shadier organization, she couldn't say.

Phil lifted a finger to his lips before leading them forward again, this time at a quick, if quiet, walk. In this 33 had the advantage; Jemma herself couldn't help but feel that her boots were clonking against the floor with every step.

"_Daisy!_"

They all froze at the howl of rage which seemed to echo down the corridor. _Cal_, Jemma thought immediately, and only the distinct _lack_ of tremors consoled her. If Skye had heard her father- or seen him- there would have been some kind of response. Jemma hoped that meant they were all safely away from the base.

Phil wrapped a hand gently around her upper arm, pulling her further down the hall. He had that worried furrow again, the one that always made her want to pet him to sleep.

"Too soon," he muttered, frowning, and after a second of thought she understood his implication. To reach and free Cal so quickly meant that the invaders knew where he was kept. They had a mole, or some other security breach had laid the Playground's layout wide open.

They continued hastening down the twisting corridor, Jemma listening in a bizarre kind of fascination as sound from the invading force bounced wildly around them. They could be mere feet behind or running parallel to them; it was absolutely impossible to tell.

The passage ended at a simple steel door which opened into a small cave. The temperature there was much cooler than the base, unsurprisingly, but as Jemma began to shiver she saw that 33 appeared not to have noticed the drop in temperature at all. She stood at her ease on the cold stone floor, gaze sweeping the cavern with sharp attentiveness.

"Shit."

Jemma turned her head at Phil's curse, noting that he had pulled a well-camouflaged cover from several motorcycles, all of a type meant for rough terrain and cross-country use. He looked back at them, his gaze briefly flicking toward the now-closed door. "Audrey, I don't suppose you ever learned to drive a motorcycle on a whim?"

"No." Audrey glanced back at the door, now. "But that's our only way out?"

"Yes."

He hadn't bothered asking Jemma, but then, he knew the answer to that. "Do you?" she asked 33 suddenly, trying to ignore the sick feeling of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. "Do you remember?"

33 moved forward and slowly ran her hands over the body of one of the bikes, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Yes," she said finally, wrapping her hands with practiced ease around the handles. "I can drive this."

"Well, that's settled," Audrey said briskly, beginning to distribute helmets from the small cabinet alongside the vehicles. "We're about the same size in shoes," she continued after everyone had received their protective gear. "You wear mine; you'll need them for driving."

"Audrey-"

Jemma stopped, realizing that this was likely the best method of escaping they had available. "Be careful," she said instead as Audrey thrust her shoes into 33's hands.

Jemma had never felt any great desire to ride a motorcycle, and had certainly never wanted to drive one. She settled behind Phil with a certain amount of trepidation, checking one last time that her helmet was on securely.

"Just hold on tight, okay?" he told her quietly, glancing over his shoulder to offer her an encouraging smile. "We'll be fine."

Plastering herself to his back might not have been what he meant when he said 'hold on tight', but he just patted the hands she had clasped tightly around his midsection, his chest still rising and falling easily with each breath. As the machine purred to life beneath them Jemma tucked her head against his back, closing her eyes.

The terrain outside the base was wild and rough, but Phil was obviously a very skilled driver. Even with her eyes shut tight Jemma could sense how in control he was of the machine, and that did help ease her nerves. She dared one glance back to check on their companions, and that quick glimpse assured her that 33 knew exactly what she was doing.

It also made Jemma dizzy, and so she tucked her head back against Phil, resolving to keep her eyes shut until they had reached their destination.

They drove for over an hour before Jemma felt them slowing to a stop. She was so chilled from the wind that it took her a few moments to release her grasp on him, her taut muscles refusing to relax.

"My brave wife," he murmured in her ear as he helped her off the bike, his hands just as cold as hers for all that he was moving much, much easier. "Let's get you inside."

At least, Jemma thought as they all walked into the small, dark house, she had been wearing shoes. Audrey was limping, a bit, looking chilled to the bone. "I want to look at everyone," Jemma told them sternly once the door was shut, keeping still as Phil searched for something in the dark. Her no-nonsense tone was somewhat spoiled by the way her teeth were chattering. "Once we have light."

As if on cue a torch switched on, the beam illuminating a portion of the dusty and sparsely furnished living room. Phil carefully balanced the torch on its end before pulling several battery operated lanterns from a small cabinet. "I'm the only one who knows about this place," he said calmly. "No power, but I'll start a fire in the woodstove and we can camp out on the floor for the night."

"First aid kit?"

"In the bathroom, first door to your right."

She took one of the lanterns with her to investigate. The kit was well-stocked and very comprehensive, and she silently blessed his foresight. Tucking it under one arm, she quickly searched the two small bedrooms. The beds looked comfortable, but she thought his idea to sleep near the stove was a good one. The rooms were much too cold for her liking.

There was a stash of clean clothing in the closet, and she grabbed a thick pair of socks from the pile. "Here," she said to Audrey on re-entering the living room, handing over the socks. "Let me check your feet first. Any pain? Tingling?"

"Yes, and yes."

"Well, that's good. I would worry, otherwise." Jemma gave her a quick examination, glad they weren't dealing with frostbite. "There's clean clothing in the closet of the second bedroom, at the end of the hall. It looked like there were several different sizes."

"I'll take our friend, then, once you give her a once-over."

33 gave her a calm look as Jemma examined her, answering her questions plainly and simply. No, she wasn't hurt. Yes, she was cold. Yes, she was hungry.

There was nothing wrong with her that Jemma could spot, and so finally she sent them both back to the bedroom to change, leaving her alone with Phil.

He carefully placed a final log on the fire and shut the small door. The room was already a little warmer, and she moved closer to him in the glow of the lantern light. "Do you have any wounds that need tending to?" she asked him quietly. They hadn't met up with an enemy, but she would ask anyway. "Do you still have feeling in your fingers and toes?"

"I'm perfectly fine." He ran a hand down her tangled hair, his gaze watchful. "You?"

"Just cold."

He nodded, slipping his arm around her shoulders as she tucked herself against his side. She waited as he dialed a number on his cell. "May. Everyone get out safely?"

She could hear May's voice, faintly, but could not distinguish the words. Whatever she had to say was evidently good news, because Phil relaxed slightly next to her. "Tomorrow, then, at the trees." He paused as another murmur rolled over the line, and when he replied his voice was amused. "You could always drug them." Another pause. "Then I'll ask her."

He turned his head to look at Jemma, his eyes alight with humor. "Do you mind if May drugs your parents, sweetheart?"

"Causing trouble, are they?"

"They're understandably confused."

"Let me speak with them."

Phil relayed the request to May and handed the phone over. After a long minute of scuffling and muffled words her mother's voice came clearly over the line. "Jemma, you're all right?"

"We're fine. Mum, you both need to listen to May, understand? I know the situation is strange, but she'll keep you both safe."

"This is…"

Her mother's voice trailed off, and Jemma waited to see if she would continue. "I suppose we were wrong about there being a cult," her mother said finally, sounding a trifle embarrassed. "But… you're sure that you're on the right side, Jemma?"

"Yes, Mum," Jemma replied with quiet confidence. "I'm very sure."

"It's not just the soulbond? I know- that is, a bond can be its own kind of pressure." There was a note in her mother's voice that Jemma did not quite like, and she was speaking hushed and quick, as if pressed into a corner of a room with her eye on the door. "Because they're your soulmate, after all, and the universe doesn't make mistakes."

Jemma thought of Audrey and Daniels and her stomach twisted. "Mum…"

"And he is older than you, Jemma, and I'm sure the sex is lovely, but you don't need to depend on him for… that."

Jemma felt her cheeks flame, but was too unsettled by her fear of what her mother was _really_ saying to dwell overmuch on parents and sex. "That's not it, Mum. It's not like that, with us."

Phil's arm tightened slightly in response, and then his grip eased when she leaned into him, brushing her lips against his chin.

"Good." Her mother's voice lowered. "I was so happy to be with you when you were young, Jemma. Happy to be there as you grew. I don't regret that."

Her tone said that the words were intended as a reassurance, but Jemma felt anything other than reassured. "I was happy to have you with me."

There was silence at the other end of the line for a few brief seconds. "Well," her mother said in a sudden, brisk voice. "You take care of yourself, then, and we will see you soon."

"Tomorrow, it sounds like." Jemma paused, feeling a tear slip down her cheek. "Goodnight, Mum."

"Goodnight, Jemma."

Jemma handed the phone back to Phil, who exchanged a few more words with May before hanging up. She caught him glancing at her out of the corner of her eye. "She-"

Jemma stopped as she heard Audrey and 33 return. "You could use some warm clothes, as well," she said instead, rising to her feet and taking him by the hand. "And you can help me gather blankets and pillows."

He followed her without a word down the hall. "Warm clothes for you, too," he said quietly, pulling a cozy sweater more his size from the closet and pressing it into her hands.

She stared down at the thick knit, wondering if her father had ever done that for her mother. _Was that your bus?_ he had asked her one autumn day- those self-same words curled neatly behind her right knee. _Blast it, yes,_ she had said in response.

"My mother used to compete," Jemma said suddenly, her gaze still on the sweater. "Ballroom. She was internationally ranked."

He knew this. Jemma was certain that he knew this, though she had only touched on it briefly in the past. It was probably hidden in the depths of her file. "She switched to teaching after she met my father. And then I was born, and..."

"A very old story," Phil commented quietly.

"One of the oldest."

He began pulling other items off the shelves- jeans, pajamas, underwear and socks and a long sleeved shirt. All her size, this time around, and he placed them gently on top of the sweater. "I love my brilliant wife," he said, laying his hands gently on the pile. "If we have children… we would both have to make sacrifices, for children. Your career would never be one of those sacrifices."

"It's not one she should have had to make."

"You can't hold yourself responsible for that."

She knew that as well as he did. Instead of answering, she placed her pile on the bed and began to change, the cold nipping its way along her skin. She opted for the sturdier pieces of clothing, leaving the pajamas aside. If they had to run in the middle of the night, she did not want to be clinging to Phil's back dressed only in flannel jimjams.

"We never discussed it, before," she said finally. "I suppose I never even thought to consider that she might have quit unwillingly."

Or willingly, but not necessarily for the right reasons. Her father could be quite persuasive, when he put his mind to it.

"There were many sacrifices my mother made that I never paid attention to." He stood beside her, dressed in his own new clothing. "All we can do is try to do better."

She stared at him for a moment, the unflappable man whom fate had so generously provided her with. Flawed, without a doubt, but then, so was she. Certainly not the type of man to get her with child and then leave her to do most of the work herself.

Jemma hid her smile as she imagined Phil in a meeting with Fury, a sleeping infant strapped to his chest in a carrier. Imagined him glaring at Fury every time his voice threatened to go above a whisper.

She was lovingly imagining what Phil would look like in a suit and baby ergo when he tapped a finger on the tip of her nose, a small smile on his face. "I lost you, at some point."

"Just thinking of far more pleasant things." A suit and a baby ergo, with a small spot of drool on the tie. It shouldn't have been a sexy image, but it was. "And you're quite right," she continued, straightening the collar of his sweater a smidge. "We'll do our best."

* * *

Perhaps Phil should have been uncomfortable sharing a pallet with Jemma when his ex-girlfriend slept only feet away, but it was surprisingly a non-issue. Audrey had managed to find a tea kettle and tea bags while he and Jemma had been dressing, and by the time they emerged the kettle was just beginning to sing on top of the woodstove. After sharing tea in the lantern light, Phil felt rather as if he had fallen into the pages of some strange, cozy adventure novel.

It would take them half of the next day to reach the meeting place. In terms of miles it was not so very far, but the complex route of backroads and wooded trails they would end up taking would add hours to their journey. The main roads would be faster, but Phil had no doubt that any traffic cameras would be monitored by both Hydra and Talbot's men.

Whoever had invaded the base might send people after them- probably would, really- but they would also be distracted by however many men they might have lost in the destruction of the Playground.

Because the Playground had, indeed, been destroyed. It was too great an asset to fall into enemy hands, and now lay in rubble and ash amidst acres of empty land. May had confirmed that all SHIELD operatives had been evacuated before the explosives had been triggered, and so all that they had lost had been, well, _things_. Weapons, yes, and equipment- and Lola, sadly enough- but the important intel had been spirited out with Natasha, and Jemma was sleeping soundly beside him on the hard floor, and all in all there was little he could really complain about.

Another round of tea in the morning, with granola bars and dried fruit from the cabinets, and then they were all back on their bikes with gloves, jackets, and shoes enough to go around. The first hour was uneventful, as they made their way west via a succession of overgrown logging roads. Jemma's grip around his midsection was not as tight as it had been the day before, and he could tell by the way she leaned into the curves with him that it was no longer quite the ordeal it had been.

Trouble did not come until they ventured onto a paved back road, and it announced itself quietly. Just an old sedan a half a mile or so behind, the driver fastidiously obeying the speed limit. Too fastidiously, in retrospect.

That sedan was joined by another, at which point the speed limit went out of the window and bullets came into play. Phil felt Jemma flinch as a bullet streaked past them, its trajectory much too close for comfort.

"_Audrey!_"

Jemma, again, not a cry of horror but an _order_, rapped out as firmly as Fury himself might have done. In the rearview mirror of the bike Phil caught the moment when Audrey threw a hand up, as if signaling a sudden turn.

The two cars behind them flipped. They had been traveling at too high a speed to take the sudden loss of power easily, and the landing, when it came, was explosive.

Phil brought his bike to a stop to observe the sight behind him, taking in what surely was a distinct lack of survivors before shifting his gaze to Audrey. Pale and shaking, yes, but resolved. She nodded gravely once she realized that he was watching her. "Let's move on," she said quietly, giving another nod of acknowledgment to Jemma.

When Phil glanced back at his wife he saw that she, too, was pale. "I'm not sure why I called to her," she admitted quietly as 33 murmured something that made Audrey smile weakly. "Did I do the right thing?"

"I think the two of you just saved us," he replied, squeezing her knee. "Good job."

That was the worst part of their journey. Audrey looked almost green by the time they rejoined the others, and both Phil and Jemma reached forward to steady her as she climbed off the bike.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she said in a voice that was distinctly not fine. "That just took more power than I expected."

Phil believed her, but as Jemma fussed over Audrey, shepherding her toward one of the waiting SUVs, he realized that at least part of her reaction was psychological. It was entirely possible that the men (women?) left behind them in the smoldering wrecks had been Audrey's first kills.

"Do we still have any psychologists on payroll?" were the first words he said to May, and in response she sighed.

"What payroll?" she asked.

Fair point.

Two agents took their bikes, and Phil was glad to sit next to Jemma in the relative comfort of the SUV, discretely assessing her condition as she did her best to give both Audrey and 33 quick exams in a moving vehicle. She certainly appeared to be in control, and she moved easily- or at least as easily as someone could, after two extended rides on a motorcycle with no prior experience. She hadn't been shot, at least, or grazed by one of the bullets that had been aimed their way.

Finally she turned from their traveling companions to aim her fierce gaze at him. "I don't suppose any of those bullets made a physics-defying turn and planted itself in your side, hmm?"

"Bullet-free," he assured her, opening his leather jacket to display his rumpled but otherwise unharmed sweater. "Not hiding any wounds, are you?"

"No." At that she relaxed- or collapsed, really, which wasn't very reassuring- against his side. "I'm sorry about Lola."

"Not to worry," he said, wrapping an arm around her and checking quickly to make sure that she had fastened her seatbelt once she had finished her duties as field medic. Seatbelt fastened, no suspicious damp spots on her sweater. He could relax slightly. "I'd rather have my Jemma."

* * *

It was one of Stark's planes that met them at a private airfield, and when they finally landed, hours later, it was at a private villa in Switzerland. Jemma had managed to catch a quick nap on the plane, but she was still swaying with fatigue when she caught sight of the group waiting for them on the edge of the airfield. Bruce was among them, arms crossed tightly across his chest and an intensely worried expression on his face. Jemma nearly called out a greeting, but stopped when Audrey walked past her.

They fit together very neatly, the physicist and the cellist. 33 paused beside Jemma, head tilted slightly to the side. "How pretty," she said finally, her expression perhaps a bit bittersweet.

"Let's give them some privacy," Jemma suggested quietly, gently drawing 33 with her toward the house. Phil caught her free hand, fingers tangling with hers. He smiled when she glanced at him, his eyes on her in a way that suggested they had been on her the entire time.

"You started a cult and didn't tell me?"

Tony, of course. Jemma was tired enough to be amused by the jibe, and as her parents watched she brushed a kiss across his cheek. "Don't be silly, Tony," she said chidingly, giving her parents an encouraging wave as they were led off to a guest room. She did meet her mother's eyes for one long moment, reminded once again that they really needed to have a good talk. "We would never start a cult without you."

"Especially not a freaky sex cult?"

"Would Pepper let you join one?" she replied innocently, feeling as if Phil's hand against her back were all that held her up.

"Probably not." Tony sighed in feigned irritation. "Fury has been terrifying my staff for the past six hours, Agent."

"Only six?"

"He was asleep before that."

"Something I'm also looking forward to." Phil looked first at her, and then at 33, who had joined May and Natasha. "Do we need to place her under guard, Jemma?"

As she watched Natasha took 33 by the hand, leading her from the room. "No, I don't think so," she replied, and yawned. She felt terribly sore between her thighs, and it was taking a good portion of her control to keep from limping. "May we sleep, or have we been summoned to a meeting?"

Tony gestured for them to follow, shaking his head slightly. "The latter."

They followed Tony out of the room, Bucky and Steve joining them as they walked. "Was it Talbot or Hydra?" Phil asked, his hand still maintaining steady pressure on her back. "Or has some other group come out of the woodwork?"

"Hydra," Bucky answered, his voice clipped. "We know that they managed to get most of their people out, and what's-his-name."

"Cal," Steve supplied, the slight smile he wore fond.

"Yeah, that jackass."

Skye was only a few steps behind Jemma, keeping close to May. "Probably wants me to fulfill my potential, still," she muttered. The only indication that she was irritated were the lights overhead, swinging gently on their chains.

"You seem pretty fulfilled." Bucky glanced up at the lights. "Nice trick."

"It's all the rage at parties." She quickened her steps to draw even with Bucky, casting him a quick look. "So, that arm of yours. Does it come with all the accessories? Can opener, knife, corkscrew?"

"Nah, but I can open even the most stubborn jars." Bucky flexed his metal hand for her perusal. "Leo scrubbed off the rust and fixed a few little problems."

Jemma wasn't entirely sure when Fitz had been able to do that, given that the last she had known he had still been staring lustfully at Bucky's arm from afar. "He didn't tackle you in the hall, did he?"

"Sidled up to me after breakfast yesterday with a toolkit and a polishing rag." He cast Steve an amused look, who merely rolled his eyes in return. "I have a thing for scrappy, big-eyed punks."

Fury began speaking before they were all even properly in his makeshift office. "SHIELD has received two very different offers over the past five hours." He held a pen loosely in one hand, looking as if he were considering stabbing someone with it. "The first was from Talbot. Immunity from prosecution for every agent and asset, provided that Phil turns himself in to federal custody."

A number of people objected to that idea, none louder than Jemma. "_Not a fucking chance in hell_," she snarled, leaning back against her husband. His body language read as relaxed, but she couldn't see his face- he had wrapped his arms firmly around her middle, perhaps worried that she might launch herself over the desk.

"Not a bad deal," Fury replied mildly. "Talbot promised you immunity, as well."

"Unacceptable. Next offer."

He smirked faintly. "Yeah, I rejected that one, too. Our second comes from Brock Rumlow."

There was a note in his voice that had her standing up straighter, and she could tell that everyone else heard it as well. "If he wants to make a trade, tell him no," Phil said calmly, still keeping his grip on her. "Unless you have the urge to give yourself for the cause, Nick."

"He doesn't want a person." For the first time in Jemma's memory, Fury looked almost apprehensive. "Not exactly."

He looked at them all slowly, one by one, and finally spoke. "He wants handwriting samples."


	9. one uninterrupted palindrome

Jemma was pacing the floor of their rather palatial guest room, and he doubted that it had anything to do with the idea of giving Rumlow a handwriting sample. "I can't believe," she seethed, "that he would dare ask you to _turn yourself in_."

She stopped in her tracks, pointing a finger at him. "And don't you dare volunteer, Phil, or disappear in the middle of the night."

He probably shouldn't have been as amused as he was, but exhaustion always had given him a predisposition to a tinge of hysteria. "Come here."

"Not if you're going to go on about the greater good," she replied snippily.

"No." He smiled at her wholeheartedly, overwhelmed with affection for his spitfire of a wife. "There isn't a chance in hell that Talbot would allow conjugal visits, Jem. I couldn't live without you."

She took a few quick steps toward him until he sat in a nearby chair, at which point she settled herself on his lap. "Well, if a good shag is what keeps you focused…"

"You know that isn't true."

Her expression softened at that. "That was unfair of me," she said, her voice gentling as she relaxed against him. "Try to resist playing the hero, please."

"Only if it's a mutual agreement."

She tipped her head down against his shoulder, just enough so that he could no longer see the shadows under her eyes. It had been far too long since either of them had slept. "I will keep to those terms if you will," she murmured, snuggling closer. "Do we have a sample of Rumlow's writing on record?"

"Should be in his file somewhere." Running his fingers through her hair, feeling its texture and weight, made him feel marginally better about possibly complying with Rumlow's demand. "If his soulmate is in our ranks..."

"A soulmate might sway his loyalty more than anything else," she pointed out, hooking her fingers over the collar of his sweater. "Not a guarantee, but… promising."

"It's a heavy burden to place on whoever that person might be." Perhaps two dozen agents from the base had come to Switzerland with them; the rest had been dispersed to a variety of safe-houses. "And even if he or she happens to be among us, I would hope that we're not morally bankrupt enough to force that person into a bond."

"The choice would be theirs, at that point." She paused, sweeping her knuckles lightly against his skin where she had them hooked over his collar. "You're worried it's Skye."

"Yeah."

"It could be Skye. It could be Fitz. It could be that woman who spent ninety percent of her free time playing Angry Birds in the lounge." She tilted her head back, meeting his eyes. "It's not either of us, though, and I'm selfishly glad of that."

"Unless you have a second mark hidden under your hair." He was far too familiar with the rest of her body for there to be a mark hidden anywhere else. Not behind her ears, or tucked between her toes, or curled sweetly inside her labia.

"And not under yours?" She asked with a small smile, reached up to massage his scalp. "You haven't gone completely bald, love."

"You probably would have noticed by now, though."

Her smile turned to a frown. "Perhaps you had better… check. On me."

If she had a second mark- a second mark with _Rumlow_, of all people- he wasn't sure how he could gracefully compose himself in that kind of situation. Carefully he sifted her hair through his fingers, gently angling her head so that he could examine the skin of her scalp in the lamplight.

"No," he said finally, relief coursing through him. "Just a perfectly ordinary scalp- albeit one I'm very fond of."

"Oh, good." She settled her head back on his shoulder, obviously weary. "Though he's probably seen me naked, anyway."

If she wanted to make bad jokes about that situation, he wouldn't say a word… at least about that. Instead he appraised her expertly, noting the slope of her shoulders and her efforts to keep her eyes open. "We should sleep, sweetheart." He knew Jemma too well. If he stayed as he was, she would be asleep within five minutes and he would be too soft-hearted to shift her off his lap. "Come on." He stood, pulling her with him, and ignored her frown of disapproval. "Let's go to bed properly."

When she kissed him some ten minutes later, her face scrubbed clean and her breath tasting of mint, it was with drooping eyelids and wandering hands. "I really am sorry about Lola," she told him, one hand on his ass and another pressed against his chest. Too sleepy for anything exciting, but he loved how relaxed she was in the threshold between true wakefulness and sleep. He would never take advantage, but he was entirely fine with her groping him whenever she pleased.

"Lola had a good run," he replied with a slight pang. More than a slight pang, really, now that reality had set in. A great car. An _amazing_ car. All that history, lost in the wreckage.

"Poor Phil." She squirmed closer, and as if to punctuate her words patted his ass gently.

"Lost something else, too."

"Hmm?"

He smirked. "Your wedding night lingerie."

She nuzzled her nose against his neck, not rising to the bait. "I know where to get more," she said in a peaceable tone, and it was the last word of sense he got out of her before she fell asleep entirely. Not that he minded- Jemma sleeping had been on his checklist- but he missed the sound of her voice.

She was soft, though, in sleep. He gently moved the hand that had been lying in a southerly location up to his chest so that he could shift onto his back. She barely reacted in response, moving only enough to sprawl across his chest and no more. His own personal alarm system, just in case he should take it into his head to accept Talbot's offer and disappear into the night.

He ran a hand down Jemma's back in the dark, listening to her breathe. Talbot could go hang. He had an opinionated British biochemist to keep up with.

* * *

Jemma dashed off the prescribed phrase- _the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog_\- and handed the piece of paper to Fitz. "I'm just a red herring," she said grumpily, moving back to the view in her microscope. "Perhaps you should skew your handwriting."

"Coulson pulled Rumlow's handwriting sample. Not even close to mine." He shuffled the papers in his hands, neatening the stack. "Nor Skye's. Not sure when I last saw him so relieved."

Jemma guessed it was at least on par with the moment he had assured himself that Rumlow's words weren't hidden under her hair. "Relieved as well, are you?"

"Who wouldn't be scared senseless over a soulbond with Crossbones?" He compulsively neatened the stack again, and she saw that she had shaken him, at least a little. "You got lucky, Jem. Audrey may keep mum about her past, but I've read that file. Freaky."

"Freaky," she echoed in agreement, stretching out the word into two syllables. "Fitz, did you ever ask your mother about her mark?"

He gave her an odd look. "'Course I have. What has your Mum been saying now?"

She could feel the flush rising on her cheeks. "Just about how hard it is to resist the bond. You know what happened with her career."

"Ah." He sat on a nearby stool, frowning. "I won't lie and say Coulson's made the best decisions one hundred percent of the time when it comes to you- or vise-versa."

"No, you wouldn't."

"But soulmates aren't immune to screw-ups." He shrugged. "I know you, Jem. You might be feeling guilty about your Mum, but you don't need to tangle up your own marriage in her experiences."

She shot him a disgruntled look. "That hadn't been my point, actually."

"Probably would have wound around to it, eventually. Coulson's good for you. You're good for him." He stood, stretched. "And I trust him to keep you safe, if my opinion counts for anything."

It was nice, hearing that from Fitz, but her own bond really hadn't been her reason for bringing up the topic. "You don't trust me to keep him safe?"

"I trust that is your intention," he replied, taking a quick step away when she reached out to slap playfully at him. "Miss _I never met a grenade I didn't want to jump on_."

"Oh, _Fitz._"

"Don't 'oh, Fitz' me." He turned away from her, papers in hand, a hint of his mark peeking out over the collar of his shirt. "Bad things always happen when you say that."

"Like you setting furniture on fire?"

He shot her an exasperated look. "Maybe once. Or twice."

"Or seven or eight times."

Their fond sniping was interrupted by a knock on the doorframe. A strawberry blond leaned into the room, her smile warm. "Scientists," she sighed, as if in perfect understanding.

"Holy shit," Fitz muttered, nearly dropping the sheaf of papers.

Pepper Potts graciously pretended not to hear him. "Would you be Jemma, by any chance?"

"Yes." Jemma tamped down her fangirl tendencies ruthlessly. There would be no babbling. None. "And you're- well. I mean, I know."

"Pepper Potts." The other woman extended a hand, still smiling warmly despite Jemma's obvious fluster. "Perhaps you could tell me where Phil is."

Jemma had clasped Pepper's hand in welcome before she had said those words, but at Phil's name dropped her hand immediately. "Are you going to yell?" she asked, suspicious. "You're not allowed to yell at him."

"I think I am," Pepper replied smoothly. She looked amused, which only served to irritate Jemma. "You're his soulmate, right?"

"Yes." A part of Jemma fully recognized that this was Pepper Potts, actual heroine, but the greater part of her would not stand by while anyone yelled at her husband, even if it was a little bit deserved. "And I'm the only one allowed to yell at Phil, and that is only on very special occasions."

Pepper's smile twitched, slightly. "That sounds like something I would say about Tony."

"Then you'll understand my reticence to lead you straight to my husband's door."

"I could always ask the staff," Pepper pointed out. "This is my house, after all."

Fitz was watching Jemma with an expression that was clearly conflicted, as if he were worried that she might ask him to tackle one of the most famous women in the world so that she could beat Pepper-bloody-Potts to Phil's side.

Admittedly, Jemma briefly considered the notion. "I'll escort you," she said after a moment of thought. This reunion could be delayed no longer, obviously. "I think he's upstairs."

"So," Pepper said as they made their way down the hall, "how are you settling in? Is there anything you need?"

Jemma resisted the urge to fuss with her ill-fitting jeans and shirt. They couldn't exactly leave the safety of the estate to pick up a few things, and the member of the staff who had been sent out with instructions to gather clothing for the new arrivals had returned with basics in the most common sizes. Jemma wasn't entirely sure whether her amusement over the belt cinching in her jeans and the rather voluminous knickers underneath outweighed her annoyance. "You've been a very gracious hostess," she said instead, and it was true. Everyone had a comfortable place to sleep, everyone had clean clothing and access to good food. Jemma had certainly stayed in much worse conditions, and was aware of how lucky they were. "We're very grateful."

"But you still don't want me yelling at Phil?" Pepper asked.

"He's been under a great deal of stress." They were ascending the rather grand staircase, passing by several members of the staff and more than a few agents. "I'm worried about his blood pressure."

"Ahh." Pepper nodded slightly, her smile shifting into something that looked much more genuine. "I suppose it wouldn't be very hostess-like to yell at a guest," she conceded. "But Phil was…"

"A good friend?" Jemma met Pepper's eyes, solemn. "That's what Phil always calls you. It upset him, to leave you in the dark."

"Well." Pepper took her hand briefly, looking a bit overwhelmed. "There isn't much I can say to that." She took in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as they walked. "Tell me about you."

That was one of Jemma's least favorite questions. She never was entirely sure whether it called for a full recounting of her childhood, or a list of her hobbies, or some unknown bit of information that would be the key to further unlocking the conversation. "I'm a biochemist," she said finally, trying to hide how verklempt she was. "That's how I met Phil. He needed a scientist for his team and ended up with a soulmate in the bargain. It was a surprising day for both of us."

"Understandably. That should have been my tip-off," Pepper admitted. "I suppose I never thought about the soulmate factor."

Jemma shot her a shocked look. "You knew that Audrey wasn't his soulmate?" she asked before thinking better of it. "I mean…"

"I knew." Pepper shrugged. "He's always been- or was- very quiet about his private life, but I knew."

"Have you spoken with her yet?"

Audrey had attended Jemma's early morning sparring session, looking much more peaceful than Jemma had expected. She hadn't said anything about her immense expenditure of power, but she had smiled wearily at Jemma and patted her shoulder in a companionable kind of way.

"Briefly. She apologized for accidentally shorting out her bedroom's lights." Pepper grinned. "I told her that Tony routinely set fire to his lab, and in the scheme of things having a staff member flip the breakers on a semi-regular basis was nothing."

Jemma bit her lip, briefly debating whether or not she should speak- and then threw caution to the wind. "I realize that this is probably a more expensive request than you might expect," she said apologetically. "But Audrey's cello was destroyed, and perhaps you might consider… as a loan, of course," she amended. "I'm sure Phil could talk Fury into paying you back."

That was debateable, actually, but Audrey was a SHIELD asset, and 33 did respond remarkably well to music, so perhaps it would be possible to finagle the funds out of Fury. Either that or Jemma would ask Skye to tap into her own frozen accounts. She doubted that she could afford to provide Audrey with a truly excellent instrument, but even a secondhand student's cello would be better than nothing.

Pepper stopped in the middle of the corridor, giving Jemma an odd look. "You really don't mind having her here," she said, sounding as if she were reconsidering a prior conception.

"We haven't always gotten along," Jemma replied honestly. "It's different, now."

"You and I will need to talk further, obviously," Pepper said after a moment. "I'll speak with Natasha and see if it would be possible to gather all of my favorite SHIELD women in one place for a few drinks. And I've already asked my assistant to purchase a cello worthy of Audrey's skill. As a gift," she added when Jemma opened her mouth, ready to reiterate her offer. "Trust me, Jemma, Tony can afford to provide Audrey with a cello. A whole house worth of cellos, even."

They paused before the door to Phil's temporary office. "That was kind of you," Jemma said, a bit unnecessarily. "This has all been very kind."

"It would have been kinder if they hadn't sent George out to buy clothing for everyone." Pepper gave her a once-over, though she looked more amused than anything. "That was a mistake, I'm afraid."

Jemma did not say what she was thinking, which was _I've been without clothing; I'm happy to have anything clean_. "Don't scold him, please. Buying clothing for nearly three dozen people is not an easy task."

"Especially since he had to spread his purchases around multiple stores to avoid attracting attention. I know." Pepper smiled again, looking every inch the CEO. "He'll be receiving overtime for his trouble."

That seemed a good enough time to end the conversation as any. Jemma knocked on the door, waiting for a reply. Phil's "Enter" sounded rather distracted. His expression, when he saw who was accompanying her, was a mix of pleasure and wariness.

"I'm so sorry, Pepper."

"I know." Pepper met him in front of the desk and patted his cheek lightly, a fond look on her face. "I had been planning on yelling at you, but your lovely wife dissuaded me."

"Jemma protects me far more often than I deserve." He held out his hand to Jemma, turning his head to give her an inviting smile. When she slipped her hand into his he lifted it and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm willing to listen, if you want to scold me."

"I will only say that I have laid my quota of flowers on your grave. Next time you die, I won't be leaving any."

"That's fair," Phil replied agreeably. "Don't you think, Jemma?"

"I think we should do something about that grave after we've settled everything," Jemma said with a frown, feeling a shiver up her spine. "I'm not sure I like knowing that there's still a grave out there, bearing your name."

She half-expected him to make a joke about convenience, but to her relief he merely kissed her hand again.

"Still keeping Tony on the straight and narrow?" he asked Pepper, who began laughing in response.

"Tony? No, Phil. I keep the company on the straight and narrow. As long as Tony comes home at night and doesn't create too great a scandal, I'm satisfied."

"You are far too understanding, Pepper."

Jemma slipped her hand from her husband's grasp, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. "I'll leave you to chat," she said, confident that she had smoothed the waters as best she could and eager to return to her research. "See you at lunch?"

"Definitely."

Jemma retraced her steps to the lab, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. As boltholes went, this was proving to be one of the better ones.

* * *

After a day of happy reunions and less-than-excellent news, Phil was grateful to finally return to his quiet bedroom for the night- or a few hours, at least, because an emergency could strike at any time. Jemma had been pulled aside by Natasha after dinner, but she finally joined him after a half hour or so, a smile on her face.

"No files tonight?" she asked him, noting his lack of tablet or paperwork.

"I think a part of my brain has shut down," he admitted. He had a book in his hands, but had spent the better part of the last ten minutes rereading the same page. "A few hours sleep and I'll be over it."

"Let's put you to bed, then," she said, coming toward him with hands outstretched. "You look very tired, love."

"Just the usual." He let her tug him to his feet, eyeing her outfit as she did so. Apparently she had not fared as well in the clothing distribution as he had. "May I help you undress?"

Her reaction was, unexpectedly, a blush. "It would probably put you off sex for life, Phil. I'll change in the bathroom."

"But now I'm curious." He slipped one hand under her shirt, feeling across the belt and the folds of fabric at her waist. "It would take more to make me uninterested than you think."

Her sigh was, thankfully, both amused and somewhat dramatic. "If you insist." She tugged her shirt over her head, revealing a very utilitarian bra and a belt that had been cinched to the last possible hole. "These were the only jeans that didn't puddle around my feet. In an emergency I probably would have tripped over the hem of the others."

"I'm not seeing a problem here. You look adorable."

"You haven't seen my knickers yet, Phil." She shot him a teasing smile as she undid her belt and began to wriggle out of her jeans. "And you are always over-complimentary."

"You deserve every one of those compliments."

She chuckled as her pants dropped to the ground. "High-waisted, large, and beige." She glanced down at herself with a smile that invited him to share in the joke. "Incredibly sexy, yes?"

The underwear, no. Jemma, yes- especially with that smile she was wearing. She laughed when he scooped her up and tossed her onto the bed. "Let me save you from them."

It wasn't until he was seconds from sliding into her that an unexpected problem came into play. Jemma gasped suddenly- a very different kind of gasp than he liked to hear from her in bed- and the hands that had been clutching him closer suddenly began to shove him away.

"Condom," she said wildly, confusing him for a few brief seconds. "My pills- they were in our room."

His immediate, unthinking response was to drop his head to her shoulder with a frustrated whine. "I don't have any," he muttered, briefly considering going in search of some before discarding the idea as much too embarrassing. He had no doubt that Tony kept them in stock, but he would be damned before he begged a condom from Tony Stark. He discarded equally as quickly the idea of trying to sweet-talk Jemma into continuing on without protection. They would both welcome a baby, but better to wait until they weren't wanted criminals, if at all possible.

"We could… oh, hell," she cursed, apparently considering similar ideas. "Bugger, bugger, fuck."

The gentlemanly thing to do would be to take care of his wife before taking care of his own situation himself, he decided. Maybe he would break into Tony's room tomorrow and commit some minor theft. Or bribe a staff member?

Bigger problems at hand, he reminded himself. His wife, for one, who was still cursing and far too tempting for Phil to ignore. "No worries, sweetheart," he said, hearing the strained note in his voice as he kissed his way down her body. "I'll take care of you."

So pretty, his Jemma. Sweet and generous and just a little bit terrifying, at times, particularly when it came to defending him against all comers. He wasn't entirely sure what he had done to deserve such a protector, but he was grateful, nonetheless. "Are you still sore?" he asked, brushing a kiss against the skin of her inner thigh. "Let me help you with that."

She whimpered as he carefully massaged the muscles that had been strained by their long hours of riding, her hips shifting in an unspoken but obvious request for him to get on with things, please and thank you.

An intense orgasm left her splayed loose-limbed on the bed, her gasps now clearly that of someone trying to catch their breath after a passionate interlude. She opened her eyes slowly when he placed a hand on her cheek, and on seeing his face offered him a rather loopy grin. "Sweet man," she murmured, stretching languorously. "Let me return the favor, hmmm?"

"I could take care of it myself."

"You are silly, sometimes." She shot him a wicked look. "Lie down and let me kiss it better."

"If you insist."

"Oh, I do. And Phil?"

He was gasping a bit himself at the first brush of her fingertips against him. "Yes, love?"

"Find some condoms tomorrow."

* * *

None of the samples they had sent to Rumlow matched the handwriting of his mark, but he still agreed to meet with them a few days later. He appeared at their chosen spot- a field some fifty miles from the estate- alone, armed only with the gun at his hip.

That they could see, anyway. Phil was certain that the man had several other weapons tucked away beneath his clothing, and he wore a kevlar vest like any sensible soldier.

Phil himself was accompanied only by Steve, much to the annoyance of Jemma, who had made her opinion on the subject very clear and had fussed over every inch of his own kevlar vest checking for flaws as he had prepared for the meeting. She had then informed Steve in no uncertain terms that if Phil was injured while they were away she would be very upset with him personally.

"Like Peggy all over again," Steve had said once they were alone in the car. "You're a lucky man, Phil."

The smile Rumlow gave them when they exited the vehicle did not quite reach his eyes. "Captain. Agent Coulson."

"Rumlow." Steve wasn't bothering to hide his intense distrust of the man. "You look well."

"Hydra learned a few tricks from SHIELD," Rumlow said vaguely, his pointed glance at Phil making the inference quite obvious. "And I'm a little bit… enhanced, shall we say."

That was ominous. "Did you find what you were looking for?" Phil asked politely, deciding that he might as well follow Steve's lead in some sort of good cop/bad cop play. "With the samples?"

"Not for me," Rumlow replied with a shake of his head. "One last order to fulfill before my last contract ended." He raised a brow at their surprise. "I have my own sense of honor, in a way," he informed them with dry amusement. "When someone pays me to do a job, I take care of every last detail."

"And who was your last employer?"

"I might be willing to tell a new employer that fact, and a few others." The statement was in earnest, Phil thought, a bit startled by that. "Hydra is finished," Rumlow continued. "They'll make trouble for a while yet, but anyone with a brain can see what's coming."

"Fleeing a sinking ship, are you?" Steve asked, more bitterly than Phil would have expected.

"I've never had your loyalty, Captain. I was raised to do the job, and keep an eye on the horizon. I'll be your man again, for a time." Rumlow raised empty hands, which did not make him any less threatening. "SHIELD is once more on the rise. You need someone willing to do your dirty work."

"And we can trust you not to burn down the organization behind our backs, is that it?"

"I suggest that you write any contract with potential loopholes in mind. I will obey that contract to the letter."

And if a legal loophole allowed him to betray them, he would. Phil hoped that Tony would allow SHIELD to borrow his army of lawyers. "We'll need some time to draw up a contract like that. What are your terms?"

"I'll provide you with a list. And as an incentive, I will answer two questions today." He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the side of his own vehicle. "Any two questions, but no more than two."

Phil exchanged a look with Steve, who nodded his head slightly in a way that seemed to indicate that he had plenty of questions, but would allow Phil to choose.

"What were the handwriting samples for?" Phil asked first, deciding that he absolutely did need to know the answer to that question. There were hundreds of other things he could ask about- the positions of the remaining Hydra forces, their next planned attack- but the samples had been such a personal request. His people were at stake.

"Whitehall still has a few moles in play. He couldn't risk reaching out to them through the usual channels, which are currently under surveillance, and he wasn't sure if any of them were actually in your company." Rumlow shrugged. "You thought it was sentiment, didn't you? That I would be so desperate to meet my other half that I would make that kind of request?" His smile, when he revealed it, was grim. "My mark is as gray as ashes. She was caught in the crossfire at the Triskelion. Never even knew who I worked for."

In the silence that followed he said, "And I'll be generous and tell you that I have no idea if Whitehall found what he was looking for in those samples or not. You'll merely have to be on your guard. Second question."

"Who is Agent 33?"

Rumlow looked mildly surprised, as if he had expected Phil to ask anything other than that. "One of Whitehall's many success stories. It took him longer to break her than any other agent. I worked with her once on an op, before the fall of SHIELD. Kara Lynn Palamas- level seven. Truly skilled with a knife. If she's with you, I hope you're keeping her under strict guard."

Phil released a long, quiet breath. "Thank you, Agent," he said, stressing the title. "We'll be in touch."

"Don't wait too long," Rumlow warned, opening the door to his car. "I have other offers. You have a week to make contact."

Phil waited until they were safely on the road before speaking again. "I know you don't like it, Steve."

"You're right, I don't. We'll never be able to turn our backs on him, not even for a second."

"It seems to fall under 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer'."

"I'm not sure we could ever keep him close enough." Steve sighed. "But I get your point." He glanced over at Phil, seeming to consider something. "Will we be putting 33 in a cell?"

"I can think of several people who would be very unhappy about that," Phil replied dryly, imagining Jemma's displeasure if he dared to order 33- Kara- be put back in restraints or locked in a room. "Perhaps you would like to explain why to Jemma and Audrey?"

"I have plans on living a few more decades, thank you."

"Wise man."

* * *

Phil put up with her hurried inspection of his person with grace. "Not even a scratch, Jemma," he said with a smile, his hands settling on her shoulders. "I have a gift for you."

"What? An uninjured husband? That isn't a gift, Phil, that's you fulfilling expectations." Satisfied that he wasn't about to fall apart under her hands, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, waiting for her heart rate to slow.

"No, an actual gift." He began stroking her back comfortingly, seeming very pleased with himself. "Kara Lynn Palamas."

She frowned against his shoulder. "Who?"

"Agent 33's name is Kara Lynn Palamas. SHIELD, level seven."

"Oh." Relief and love, flooding her in an instant. "Oh, Phil. That is a gift."

"That's all I know, but it's a start, right?"

"A very good start." A name could be everything. "Did Rumlow tell you that?"

"It was an incentive." He paused, his hands flexing against her back. "I'm afraid that he sent all those samples to Whitehall, Jemma."

She felt rather sick, at that. "We should have seen that coming."

"Probably. We'll have to move, and soon. Stark might have purchased this place through layers of shell companies, but secrecy won't hold out forever."

That she had expected. They would be traveling light, at least. "I should go find Audrey," she said after a minute more in his arms. "Kara deserves to know."

"And I have work to do." He kissed her briefly before letting her go, running his fingertips caressingly down the sides of her face. "I'll see you at dinner."

Audrey was with Kara, conveniently enough, as well as Skye, and Jemma took a moment to flash them all a wide grin, still feeling rather breathless from her sprint down several corridors and up a staircase. "I know your name," she announced happily, having decided that even if everything else still seemed determined to go to hell, she could at least be glad over this one thing. "Kara Lynn Palamas."

Kara sucked in a breath, her gaze turning inward as if re-evaluating every aspect of her current life. "Kara," she said softly. "That was my name?"

Audrey's gaze sharpened at the past tense. "It still is, if you want it," she said in a neutral tone, exchanging a glance with Jemma and Skye. "We'll call you whatever name you like."

"Kara." She hummed thoughtfully, curling her legs underneath her on the window seat. "I think I like it."

Jemma could see a twin of her own beaming smile on Audrey's face. "Now that we know, Skye can dig around in the database. Surely your file is in there somewhere. We'll need your birth date, your medical history-"

Jemma stopped at the looks she was receiving. "What? Medical histories are important. What if your family has a history of breast cancer? Preventative screening is no light matter."

Audrey chuckled, shaking her head ruefully, and Kara slowly relaxed. Skye merely continued giving her a fond, if exasperated, look. "We'll find out all that, and more," Audrey said, and began to rosin her new bow. "But I don't think we need to run Kara to the clinic just yet."

"No, of course not. I didn't mean to panic anyone." Jemma blushed, annoyed that she had let her mouth run on. "I'm sorry, Kara."

"I will take any kind of history, even a medical one," Kara replied, a hint of humor on her face. "You'll stay for a little while, won't you?"

Audrey nodded in agreement, settling the cello between her legs. "I have a new friend to acquaint myself with," she said, petting the wood of the instrument lightly. "Pepper has excellent taste in luthiers. This is easily several steps up from the cello I played in the philharmonic, as beloved as Marianne was."

"You named your cello?" Jemma asked with a smile as she settled onto the floor near Skye.

"I name all my instruments. I'll have to find something appropriate for this lady." Audrey's eyes gleamed with a particular kind of lust that Jemma recognized. It had nothing to do with the body and everything to do with the mind: that search and acquisition of an excellent tool of the trade. Jemma had felt much the same way about some of her equipment on the Bus. "Now: what to play first?"

Her bow hovered above the strings briefly, and Jemma saw the moment when she made her decision: her mouth relaxed into a smile even as her fingers took up their initial position on the strings.

Skye's arm draped over Jemma's shoulders as the first notes spilled into the room, and they exchanged brief smiles. The blessed quiet, Jemma thought, before the storm.

* * *

The contract was drawn up- by SHIELD attorneys, not Stark's, because as Natasha had rightly pointed out they couldn't ask civilians to pen a contract that would deal primarily with wetwork operations- and was as ironclad as such a document could possibly be. Rumlow agreed to all terms and signed before a notary public with nerves of steel. It was all very civil and businesslike.

That did not make his initial meeting with the team any less nerve-wracking. Phil hoped that his calm facade was still in place, because he definitely did not feel calm.

"I'll tell you first who your competitor was," Rumlow said, standing at ease on the other side of the table. "Perhaps you remember the name Gonzales?"

"Robert Gonzales?" Fury shifted in his seat, frowning. "Went down with the _Iliad_."

"Actually, he and a ragtag team managed to survive, at which point he set about rebuilding SHIELD." Rumlow gave them all a sardonic look. "Apparently he didn't like the last one very much."

"How the hell did that stay off the radar?" Clint muttered to Natasha, loudly enough that everyone could hear him.

"He's taken advantage of your distraction to continue consolidating his power base. As I understand it, once he found out that Fury was actually alive he upped his game. Perhaps you've noticed that Index assets are slowly beginning to disappear?"

There were always reports of assets going off the radar, but it had appeared to be Hydra's doing. "Are you telling us that we have another civil war on our hands?" Phil bit out, intensely frustrated. All that work, all those sacrifices, and suddenly a new threat was coming right at them. "We haven't even made peace with the military yet."

"And they aren't helping." Rumlow typed quickly on the keyboard in front of him, pulling up satellite images of the demolished Playground. "And I suspect that Gonzales has a plan in the works to make a treaty with the general who has been hounding you for so long, so I suggest you make a more concerted effort to sway Talbot to your side."

Judging by the look on Fury's face, his irritation outstripped even Phil's. "What else can you tell us about Robert?" he grumbled, steepling his fingers before him.

"That one of his moles was also one of yours." The screen shifted to an image of a very familiar blonde woman, and there was a stream of quiet cursing from those who knew her. "He sent Morse to infiltrate you, and you sent Morse to infiltrate Hydra. When the last of their forces invaded your base, she was with them- and when they transported your prisoner elsewhere she finished off his guards and took him back to Gonzales."

Skye had gone very, very still next to him. "And because we thought she was loyal, she knows every powered individual in our ranks," she said in a flat voice. "Right?"

"It's likely." Rumlow assessed her as a soldier might a potential enemy. "I think Gonzales will be moving soon. From what he said during our brief interview, he seems to be under the impression that the Director and Agent Coulson have been building an army from the Index."

A sudden thought coalesced in Phil's mind, one that had him on the brink of rage. "Those two questions you allowed me," he said slowly, forcing himself to stay calm. "Did you also answer two for Gonzales?"

"It was only fair," Rumlow replied evenly.

"And what questions did he ask?"

"He asked if you had any powered individuals in your immediate circle other than the Avengers, and I told him you had two."

Phil purposefully did not look toward Skye or Audrey, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Skye's white-knuckled grip on the table. "And did you identify them?"

"I did."

"And his second question?"

"Whether your wife's loyalties could be changed." Rumlow's wry gaze flicked toward Jemma, who- Phil was almost amused to note- looked enraged. "I did not tell him that it was the stupidest question I had ever heard."

"What did you tell him?" Jemma asked, her tone acidic.

"That he would have to employ some fairly radical methods to suborn Coulson's biochemist." Rumlow seemed to be at ease, despite the number of glares being aimed in his direction. "He wasn't pleased by that answer, but Weaver agreed with me."

Jemma seemed to choke on an intake of breath. "Weaver? _Anne Weaver?_ From the Academy?"

"The one and only. She's one of his board members. I got the feeling that she was the one who insisted he ask about you, though I doubt her reasons were to get at Coulson. Pet student?"

Instead of answering Jemma turned away, looking shocked. Fitz's face bore a similar expression.

Rumlow continued. "To my knowledge, Gonzales does not yet know that I've accepted an alternate offer. He expects my answer four days from now, and he expects to receive it in person." He leaned forward, his hands flat against the table. "He's the lynchpin," he said, meeting their eyes one by one. "Take him, and in time they'll fall."


	10. the way back home

"Yeah, I'm not buying it," Skye said the moment Rumlow had left the room, her stance signaling that she was ignoring Fury's tired glare. "A secret SHIELD? More like a new Hydra trick."

"Admittedly," Fury said heavily, leaning back in his chair, "Gonzales, for all that he was an excellent agent, never liked me that much."

Phil heard Jemma mutter "Imagine that," much to the delight of several Avengers. Fury obviously heard as well, but he barely spared her a glance. Phil did take a moment to assess his wife, taking in her grim expression and the tense set of her shoulders.

"We need further proof than Rumlow's word," Phil said, though he felt a nagging suspicion that Rumlow had been telling them the truth. That was the way SHIELD's luck ran, these days. Solve one problem and another would pop up, even worse. "Nick, ideas?"

"Hell, Phil, for the second time in my life an enemy organization has been operating under my auspices without me being the wiser. I'm thinking about just retiring again." He held up his hands as if sending a plea to a higher authority, and then abruptly focused his attention on May. "I should have made you Director the first time around. Consider yourself in charge."

"He's not wrong," Phil admitted with a shrug when a half a dozen people immediately looked in his direction.

"No," was May's response, and it was delivered in a firm, chilling voice.

"Before you offer the job to Phil again, I'm declining on his behalf," Jemma interjected, her tone brooking no opposition.

Fury merely gave her a disturbingly perceptive look. "You could be the Director."

For the flash of a second Jemma almost seemed to consider the offer, but then: "_No_."

"I don't want it either, in case you were wondering," Clint offered casually.

"I wasn't planning on asking you, Barton." Fury rubbed his forehead, his expression that of someone anticipating a migraine. "Stark, I'm stealing back my Deputy Director."

"Does Maria know that she's still Deputy Director?" Natasha asked with a sly smile, having wound her way around the room to stand next to Jemma. "She might be surprised by that."

"She's about to be the Director," he muttered darkly in response. "And I am about to spend the next decade lying on a beach, ordering drinks with umbrellas in them."

"There's always Tahiti," Phil said lightly, giving Nick an innocent smile when the other man turned to glare at him.

Judging by the expression on Jemma's face, she was considering something very seriously, and Phil only hoped that she wasn't about to make another bid to go undercover. He had no doubt that Weaver was still fond of both Fitz and Jemma- who wouldn't be, really- but the kind of complex cover story that Jemma would need to infiltrate this new SHIELD threatened to bring on a headache. Why would a newlywed woman leave her bondmate to work for the enemy? Even if Jemma were a better liar, it would have been a difficult sell.

"If he is telling the truth," Jemma began, "we can't simply capture or take out Gonzales. He might be the key to everything, but it would be foolish to just assume that dealing with him would take care of the entire operation. Professor Weaver is an extremely capable scientist and administrator, and has a way of making people trust her."

"Jem's right." Fitz leaned against the table, drumming his fingers on the edge. "She could definitely run an organization like SHIELD, and we don't even know who else is on Gonzales' board of directors."

"So we send Rumlow back with orders to infiltrate?" Natasha raised a brow, a considering expression on her face. "We'd never be sure how much of his intel was good."

"So we send someone in with him." Jemma's expression took on a flustered cast when everyone looked toward her. "Look, I'm not pleased about it either," she snapped. "But we know they want me, and they probably wouldn't believe him capable of grabbing someone like Natasha or May or Bucky without serious damage on both sides. But if he shows up with a gift, so to say, for his new employers…"

"We could just send them an email instead, doll," Bucky said quietly, the inference raising a light blush on Jemma's cheeks. Phil didn't particularly like that idea either, but given a choice between sending Gonzales' crew a virus and sending them his wife, he knew which one he would pick. As it was, only the fact that Jemma would most likely sever their marital ties posthaste was keeping him from literally tossing her over his shoulder and making a run for the exit.

"And why would they open it?" she replied. "The only reason the first email worked was because you had an intimate knowledge of Hydra code phrases and SOP. Rumlow wouldn't know enough about faux-SHIELD's inner workings to create a version tailored specifically for them. But if he grabs me and hauls me along for their meeting, their first instinct won't be to hurt me, it would be to… to woo me."

"Are you so sure about that?" Phil asked her quietly, and there was just enough uncertainty in her eyes to disconcert him even further.

"They want a willing scientist, not a tortured hostage."

"You're pinning a great deal of hope on the affection of an old professor."

There was a moment of silence after Phil spoke those words. He had the distinct feeling that the others were split in opinion, and wondered if Jemma appreciated the fact that Fury was likely temporarily on her side.

"I think you're right that they would try the carrot first," Natasha admitted, laying a gentle hand on Jemma's shoulder. "But while they're trying the carrot, it would be very difficult for you to find out anything they didn't want for you to know, and even more difficult to get information out to us. And eventually they would try the stick."

"And if I gave them an incentive not to?" Jemma asked.

"I shudder to think what that incentive might be," Fury said with a sigh. "We couldn't send the email anyway, Barnes. Morse knows all about it."

"Does she?" Jemma asked in a voice that clearly indicated that she had found the key to the situation. "Everything?"

"She knows we sent the virus, and how it worked," Fury replied with a healthy dose of understandable wariness. Phil himself was feeling a definite ache in the pit of his stomach. "Why?"

"Does she know that I was the one who wanted to send it?"

By now everyone in the room had at least a basic knowledge of the virus that had given them the edge over Hydra, and their general discomfort with the topic was clear.

"No," Fury finally said. "No, I didn't tell her that- I didn't even tell her exactly what the bait was, but I'm sure she knows now."

Phil guessed that was Fury's own way of being delicate in this situation. "Jem-"

Natasha interrupted him, allowing him only a brief warning glance. "So you go in as a hostage, but one with an axe to grind."

"It would make sense," Jemma replied, studiously avoiding his gaze. "Against Fury, obviously. Not anyone else. If I say that he saw the opportunity and took it, over my objections- and Phil's objections," she added suddenly with a flash of heat in her voice, "That would be more believable than me suddenly having a grudge against SHIELD as a whole."

"And it would give them more hope of gaining your loyalty, if they offered immunity for your husband and friends," Bucky finished. "But we couldn't send you in alone, doll."

"I'm not very pleased by the idea of sending her in at all," Phil countered coolly, knowing that Jemma would be having words with him later. "I'd much rather we sent in a strike team with Rumlow."

"Your husbandly concern does you credit, Phil, but she's right," Natasha told him in a calm voice. "Take out Gonzales and we'd always wonder if his group would pop up again. Even if we interrogated him, I doubt he'd give us anything of use. I never met him myself, but I know the stories. The man doesn't crack under stress or torture." She held up a finger when Jemma looked to interrupt. "And Bucky's right. Sending you in with just Rumlow would be a mistake. Just because he would have orders to get you out in an emergency doesn't mean he would follow them."

"But it can't be any of the main players." Trip assessed the others in the room, giving Phil an apologetic shrug. "Not you, sir, and not one of the Avengers."

"And not you." Skye gave him a strained smile. "Howling Commando legacy, and all that. Not May, not Fitz. I could go."

"And end up in a lab or a cell." Jemma shook her head. "From what Rumlow said, they see powered individuals as pawns, not people. We can't risk you."

"How widespread is the knowledge that I'm with you and in my right mind?" Bucky asked. "And no jokes about my mental state."

"I haven't told Morse," Fury replied. "Whether a mole from the Playground has told anyone else, that I can't say, although I would guess that Gonzales would at least suspect that Steve and Phil's adventure on live television had something to do with you."

"So maybe not me," Bucky concluded easily. "Kara, how compliant are you feeling these days?"

Kara wrinkled her nose slightly, conveying in that brief bit of motion her distaste for the word. "While I feel like an actual person, I can't guarantee that the trigger words wouldn't fail to work. But," she continued, "I feel I could put on an excellent performance of compliance."

"If there's a mole, they'll know about Kara too."

Phil wasn't surprised to hear Audrey speak up. She moved closer to the table, nearly brushing shoulders with Bruce and Bucky as she stepped between them. "How would he explain extracting Kara from your custody? They might have expected to find her in the vault when they arrived."

She and Kara exchanged a long look, the other woman nodding her head after a moment in acknowledgment. "If they were, they might find my sudden appearance suspicious- and if they were paying any attention to the security feeds, they would know that I spent more time with Audrey and Jemma than anyone else."

"Let me make this quite clear," Phil said in a low, firm voice as the group fell into silent contemplation of the problem at hand. "If Jemma goes in at all- something I am very much _against_\- Jemma goes in with as much protection as we can possibly offer. Hidden comms, a ceramic knife tucked in her boots, Natasha wearing an invisibility cloak and walking one step behind at all times- I don't care."

Jemma's hand slipped into his, and when he glanced down at her he found that she was watching him with a worried look. "Even if Professor Weaver can't protect me for reasons of sentiment, I'm too valuable to harm," she said quietly. "Think of all the things I know, Phil."

Fury's location, for one, more information about GH325 than anyone else on the planet was privy to, and any number of other important things. "And think of the many ways they could extract that information from you," he replied, hating himself for making her flinch but finding the words necessary. "I'm sure they've developed their own methods of making people comply."

It was marvelous, really, how far Kara had come in the past few weeks, but Phil was quite aware that he wouldn't find it quite so marvelous if he had known Kara before Whitehall had gotten his hands on her. He had a feeling that it would be a much different experience, to know what someone had once been and yet be faced with a shadow. If Jemma were returned to him, quiet and complacent… he didn't think he could bear that.

She seemed to understand exactly what he was thinking, because after her initial flinch she merely moved closer, still keeping his gaze. "Let's talk, hmmm?" she said, drawing him toward the door. "We'll be back in a few minutes," she said to the room at large.

There was a little parlor down the hall, and that was where she led him, carefully locking the door against intruders before turning around. "Phil, I'm tired."

When he opened his mouth to respond, she shook her head and continued. "I'm tired of this life. I'm proud to be an agent of SHIELD, but I can't keep running. I'm ready to end this in any way I can."

"I'm not sure it will ever be over," he admitted, sitting slowly in a nearby armchair and feeling older than his years.

"It will be years before SHIELD is again what it once was. Possibly decades. But we've snuffed out most of Hydra." She settled onto his lap hesitantly. "If we can find a solution for this, for Talbot's vendetta… we could settle in one place. One highly secured place," she amended. "We could have a family."

"Run the New York branch out of Stark's tower," he murmured, slumping back in the chair even as he brought a hand up to touch the ends of her hair. "That's secure."

"The New York branch," she repeated, "or… we'll need an academy, you know. Three of them. And they would probably be small, at first, so perhaps Tony would be willing to let us use three floors of his lovely building..."

She gave him a bright smile, stroking her fingers down the front of his shirt. "You would make an excellent headmaster for the operatives' academy."

"Not Steve, or May, or Natasha?"

"Well, May is better at paperwork than you…"

She came willingly when he pulled her in closer. "And would the illustrious Fitzsimmons duo be heading the science academy?"

"I doubt Fury would ask Weaver to come back. Just imagine: wrangling students by day, going home to our cozy apartment by night… raising a few children with relatively few threats to our lives, other than something exploding in the chem labs."

He had to admit, he really liked her vision of the future. "As amazing as that sounds, the near future is what concerns me."

"I always was Weaver's favorite student. Don't tell Fitz," she added impishly, but he could spot her undercurrent of nerves.

"If it were just Weaver, I wouldn't worry as much. If we knew everyone on Gonzales' team, I might not worry as much… but there are a lot of unknown variables here, Jem."

"I know." A soft, tired smile now. "But if we just sent in a strike team… the uncertainty would haunt you, Phil. Let me do this. For us."

And if she died on this mission, this moment- that look on her face, her warm weight on his lap, her words- would be playing an integral part in his nightmares for years to come. "Sweetheart, I've come too close to losing you already."

"And vise-versa." She took one of his hands in her own and gently spread it across her stomach, clasping her hands on top. "But when this is all over, Phil, I'll come back, and we'll do away with the condoms and birth control pills and try our luck."

He stared down at their hands, feeling utterly sick to his stomach and knowing he would never talk her out of it at this point. She had made up her mind, and nothing he could say would sway her. "I hope you realize that if you die I will be _very_ upset."

"Would you send me to Tahiti, Phil?"

It was his turn to flinch, now, and her mouth immediately turned down in a regretful frown. "No, sweetheart," he said, skimming his fingertips against the material of her blouse. "I would never do that to you."

* * *

Jemma was feeling stunned by her own nerve and rather tender in general by the time she escaped not only the meeting, but also Natasha and May's mandatory pre-op training and orientation session (part one). Part of the tenderness she felt was most definitely physical, because both women had insisted on fast-tracking her training to shove what last-ditch maneuvers they could into her brain and muscles. That almost paled in comparison to the emotional tenderness she felt every time she remembered Phil's expression at the moment when he had finally come to terms with the fact that she had every intention of following through with this insane plan.

And now she had to deal with her parents. Joy.

It was her father she worried about now- she had come to terms, somewhat, with her mother, but the way her father stood and puffed out his chest when she entered the room could only mean trouble.

"You're being moved to a safe-house," she said in a rush, snapping the words out before he could speak. She had enough to deal with at the moment; she didn't need her father trying to take his baby girl down a few pegs because he felt justifiably insecure. "We're all leaving this location, and this will be safer for both of you."

"I think she's right," her mother interjected smoothly before her father could say anything. "We're just in the way, John dear. We'll spend a few weeks in some darling cottage somewhere while they clean up this mess, and we'll be home soon enough."

Jemma hesitated, feeling almost as shocked as her father looked. "Olivia," he protested, raising a hand in an uncertain _help me here_ fashion.

"This is Jemma's work," her mother told him firmly. "One day we'll all sit down and have a chat about it, but that day is not today. And I do mean a chat, John, not an interrogation."

"Are we supposed to be happy she's been running around playing James Bond?" he grumbled, but sat back down in his chair. "Risking her life while telling us she was planning children's birthday parties?"

"That cover was chosen for me," Jemma said with a sigh, sitting in a nearby chair. "And I'm not an operative-"

Technically, the truth. "-I'm a biochem expert. So all that schooling wasn't a waste, after all."

Her father gave her an uncertain look. "The warrant…?"

"A misunderstanding," Jemma replied, aware that was a dramatic understatement. "I haven't been moonlighting as a mad scientist, I swear. And Phil is just caught up in the mess as well. He's a lovely man, he really is, and he's such a good husband."

"I'm going to enjoy getting to know him," her mother commented, a light in her eyes that suggested she was perfectly willing to be friendly with her new son-in-law, provided he live up to her standards. "And once your father finishes processing everything, I'm sure he'll feel the same."

There was an unspoken threat there, and Jemma could tell that her father had also heard it. "I'm sure I will," he said after a moment, the words unconvincing.

"So," her mother said smoothly, picking up her tea cup. "Your Phil. Does he dance?"

"Very well."

"I'm so glad. It's always lovely to have a man around who knows more than the nightclub shuffle."

Her father hid his wince well. Obviously her mother was employing a _take no prisoners_ method of coping with strange circumstances. Jemma couldn't help but feel selfishly glad that the same attitude was no longer being directed at her.

"You know what," her mother continued in a conversational manner. "My old friend Jeanette has been trying to convince me to return to teaching. If she'll still have me after all this is over, that sounds like an exciting challenge."

"You would have such fun," Jemma said with a smile. "You're much too good to leave the world of dance forever."

"I might even enter a few competitions." Olivia sipped her tea, looking pleased with herself. "What do you think, John?"

"What an excellent idea." He coughed and instinctively reached up to loosen a tie that was not there. "Perhaps you might even consider trying to teach an old dog a few new tricks."

Her mother gave him a long look, her expression softening slightly. "A worthy challenge indeed."

Jemma had the distinct feeling that she had just witnessed a miracle, and let out a quiet sigh of relief. One less thing for her to worry about while away.

* * *

Rumlow's reaction to the new plan was to give her a non-sexual once-over and ask everyone present if they were insane or, perhaps, high on some excellent drugs. To Jemma's private amusement, Rumlow and Phil exchanged a brief look indicating that they were temporarily in complete agreement with the other.

"I get your line of thinking, I do, but you're just supplying them with an excellent hostage," he told them flatly, gesturing toward what was visible of her mark. "Why should they trust her?"

"Why wouldn't they?" Jemma retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've seen myself in a mirror, thank you. Short scientists aren't exactly threatening."

"In case you've forgotten, there are several people here who find you plenty threatening, doll." Bucky jerked his head toward Fury, not bothering to even try to conceal the gesture. "We're wise to your scary ways."

"But other people aren't," she replied with a slight smile. "Anne Weaver never saw me as anything other than a brilliant, powder-puff princess, I assure you."

"Besides, we aren't sending her in unprotected," Natasha told Rumlow, taking a step closer to him. "That's what you're there for."

His reaction to that was to cast his eyes heavenward. "Captain."

Steve raised his hands in a defensive motion. "I don't argue with Jemma, Brock. This wasn't my idea."

"But I'll have back-up following behind, right?"

The others exchanged quick looks, several of them obviously unsure how much of the plan to reveal to him. "Yes, several of us will be following at a discreet distance," Steve confirmed. "We'll be monitoring in shifts for as long as this takes."

"I just want it on record that I think this is an incredibly foolish idea." Rumlow frowned, examining Jemma again while she glared back at him. "But I'll get her in, and I'll get her out alive. You have my word."

And that was that, at least when it came to Rumlow's objections to the plan. He laid out every scrap of information he had on faux-SHIELD, which Jemma was disheartened to find was actually very little. Fury ransacked SHIELD's files, pulling out every report written by or about Gonzales and the few agents they knew followed him. Natasha and May continued to pummel Jemma on the mats on a daily basis, their tender mercies being both few and far between.

And Phil was… Phil was Phil. He was involved in every step of the operation, whether it was reviewing agent profiles or setting up contingency plans, and at night he wrapped his arms around her as if she were about to face a firing squad. He was not pleased, Jemma knew, but he rarely complained or voiced his worries aloud.

As usual, Jemma's worst enemy was herself. She threw herself into preparations with single-minded intent, fully committed to the plan but dreading the moment when it actually went into action. It was easier to think calmly when she was too busy to fret, but then May forced her to take the last afternoon off, to rest.

Rest. Who could rest at a time like this?

Jemma begrudgingly went to her room and laid down for a nap, and only after an hour had passed and she was still as awake as ever did she sit up and consider the situation at hand. She was leaving to undertake a dangerous mission on the morrow. Her. Jemma Simmons.

Oh God.

She clutched the blanket underneath her in her hands, trying calm her breathing. She would think of something else- she would think of Phil, though it hurt to think of leaving him. She thought of the furrow on his brow that had scarcely gone away for more than a few minutes during the past few days, thought of how thoroughly he had shagged her into the mattress the night before and how much she had enjoyed it.

Then she remembered that this was their last night together for quite a while, and had to choke back a few tears. No, she wouldn't cry. She would enjoy herself, dammit, and the first thing she would do would be to find something to wear that would make his jaw drop.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done.

Fortunately, Natasha did not object to being dragged into her bedroom for a frantic (on Jemma's side) consultation.

"Natasha," Jemma said, trying her hardest to impart how desperate a situation this was. "This is an emergency."

"A lingerie emergency?" Natasha asked with a slight smile.

"I've leaving on a possibly life-threatening mission tomorrow. Seduction is the number one item on my to-do list."

Natasha looked her up and down, hands on her hips. "Jemma, you don't need lingerie."

"_Nat!_"

Jemma was well-aware that she was whining, but _really_. "Natasha, how often have you dragged me into a lingerie shop? I seem to recall that you once encouraged me to wear some truly scandalous knickers and drag Phil into dark corners."

"Which suited the time. Trust me, Jemma, you don't need lingerie to catch his interest tonight."

While that was true, that was not the response Jemma wanted. "I want it to be special." She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, feeling indescribably nervy. "We might not see each other for months. I might d-"

Natasha glared her into silence. "No one is dying, Jemma." She stalked over to the closet and began rifling through the clothes, frowning. "Which one of these shirts has Phil worn?"

Jemma sighed and moved to join her. Phil's clothing selection was just as limited as hers, but his fit rather better, probably because the unfortunate George was of a similar build. "He's worn this one twice," she said begrudgingly, tapping one of the white button-downs. "The buttons are different," she said defensively when Natasha gave her a questioning look.

"That is adorable," Natasha said dryly, pulling the hanger in question from the closet. "Okay, this is the plan."

"The seduction plan?"

"Jemma, you could wear a burlap sack and he would pin you against a wall. Hold this shirt in reserve. I will speak with Pepper; she probably has some bubble bath lying around."

"Nat-"

"This is old-school, Jem. You take a long bath- maybe she has something with ylang-ylang- light some candles, put on his shirt with your hair loose." Natasha paused, giving her a significant look. "Or you pounce on him as soon as the door is closed. Trust me, it will be memorable either way."

Jemma stared down at her hands, noting absently that they were shaking. "If I do die, you'll look after him, won't you?"

After a moment of silence Natasha tossed the shirt onto the bed and took her hands. "It's not too late to change your mind. I'm always up for a last-minute raid on enemy territory."

"I'm not changing my mind. You'll look after him?"

"Jem-"

"I'm serious, Natasha." She lifted her head to meet Natasha's stalwart gaze. "I want him to be happy. Please look after him.'

Natasha pursed her lips, looking deeply unhappy by the request. "Yes. If you insist. Not that anyone will be dying."

"Of course not," Jemma replied, her voice as light as she could manage. "Thank you, Nat."

In the end, she followed Natasha's advice. Bubble bath- jasmine, not ylang-ylang- candles, loose hair, halfway buttoned shirt. He gave her a look on entering their bedroom that was half-admiring, half-frantic, pulling off his own clothing hastily before falling into bed with her. His assiduous attentions left her covered in mild whisker burn from his nine-o'clock shadow, and it wasn't until after they were both panting and spent that she realized that they had both forgotten the damn condom.

Still, she wouldn't change a thing. And she certainly wouldn't mention the lack to Phil- poor sleepy, worried Phil- because that would only give him another thing to obsess over.

"Change your mind," he pled in the dark, his lips pressed against her neck.

She thought of Anne Weaver, of her time at the academy, of the curriculum she had begun to brainstorm in her odd spare moments of time… and thought of chasing after small, blue-eyed children in a New York City apartment. "Don't fret, love," she said soothingly, petting his hair. "I'll be back home before you know it."

* * *

"This is a mistake," Phil said quietly to May, acutely aware that his palms were sweating even as his mouth felt as dry as cotton. "Shoot her with your ICER, May. You have my permission."

May cut him a truly irritated look. "Phil, if you want your wife shot, you'll have to do it yourself."

"She won't listen to me, May."

"A mark of a wise woman." May sighed, her gaze turning almost sympathetic. "We've wrapped her in as many safeguards as we have, Phil."

"Except a bodyguard," Phil said bitterly. There had been no one safe enough to send with Jemma- either because Bobbi Morse might know about them, or because the idea of Rumlow capturing and controlling Jemma _and_ someone else stretched credulity- and now his wife was going into enemy territory alone, without aid at hand.

"Rumlow might come through," she pointed out. "As much as I hate to admit it, he really does seem to adhere to contracts. At the first sign of trouble, he might tuck Simmons under his arm and make a break for it."

Phil thought of Brock Rumlow's muscled frame and his wife's petite stature and frowned. May wasn't necessarily speaking in metaphorical terms.

"Don't give me that look," she said, noting his expression. "Simmons would slap him for taking liberties and then run straight toward you."

Well, that was also true. "May-"

"She's alone." May tipped her head toward the plane, where Natasha had stepped away from an obviously nervous Jemma. "Go say goodbye."

'Goodbye' ended up consisted of leading Jemma around to the far side of the plane, away from onlookers, and kissing her in a way that would have upped the rating of the average Hollywood film.

"It isn't kind to start something you can't finish," Jemma told him sternly, her hands clutching his shoulders. "Honestly, Phil."

He was in a similar, if far more apparent, state. That gray shirt was doing wonderful things for her breasts. "It's not like he'll leave without you." He dropped his head to her shoulder, trying to dredge up some baseball stats. "You have everything?"

Her earrings had been fitted with microphones- undetectable, Fitz had assured him- and she wore her wedding ring _cum_ tracking chip. "All jewelry, present and accounted for." She ran a hand soothingly down his back. "Promise me you'll sleep, jazz man. And eat on a regular basis."

"Stay here and make sure I do. Please."

Her hand froze mid-stroke. "This is our chance, love."

When she came back (and she would come back) and they started their theoretical academies, his first act would be to remind his students that soulbonds were wonderful and terrible and might actually shorten their lives. Perhaps he would prepare a slide-show.

She didn't need to hear that now. She needed to be reassured and sent off with his best wishes, unburdened by his worry. "You're right," he said after taking in a deep breath, easing back so that he could give her a gentle smile, his arms still around her. "You're the bravest person I know, sweetheart. I know you'll come home to me."

She relaxed slightly in his arms, but he could still catch a glimpse of her own nervousness. "I will come home to you," she promised, lifting to her toes and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Take care of yourself, please. For me."

"I promise. You do the same."

One last kiss- gentler, this time, almost a prayer- and he let her go.

He watched as their quinjet departed, and as the one carrying her back-up followed. Fitz and Tony between them had managed to strengthen the cloaking devices on the second plane, ensuring that it wouldn't be noticed by any agency, including this other branch of SHIELD. Rumlow had not been told where they would make their base- an act even Rumlow had approved of, citing concerns over truth serums and torture- but they would be in the vicinity of Gonzales' SHIELD, and they would be listening.

"Hey, AC."

He met Skye's eyes as agents carrying equipment scurried around them, preparing for their own departure to a variety of safe-houses. "She'll be okay."

"Yeah," she said in agreement, squeezing his hand briefly. "She'll be fine."

* * *

It was the first time Jemma had ever been alone with Rumlow, and she found his silence almost unnerving. Not that he was paying any attention to her- he had his eyes on the horizon and the controls, and she was left to study the interior of the quinjet's frame.

"About ten minutes," he said suddenly a few hours into their journey, startling her from her quiet obsessing. "You ready for this?"

"As ready as I can be, I suppose."

"Listen," he said, twisting back to look at her. "I'm your ally, okay? I won't be able to act like it outside of this plane, but I'm your ally."

She certainly hoped that he was. "I know."

He raised a brow. "Never play poker. You are a terrible liar."

"I'm getting better," she grumbled, and he smirked.

"Okay, Simmons. Tell me our story, one more time."

She took in a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "SHIELD was investigating the remains of the Hydra cell near Lublin. Our intel said that they had been holding assets from the Index there. I wandered away from the others, following a weak comm signal."

"And you found?"

"I didn't find the source, but I did find a half-destroyed lab, and when I went to find the others you grabbed me."

"Not the prize I was looking for, but an even better one." He chuckled, and she dearly hoped that he was just getting into the spirit of things. "I'm getting a bonus for this."

"Yay," she replied weakly, and was relieved to hear his frustrated sigh. "Oh, good. You were getting into character."

"I'm under contract, Simmons. And betraying you, when all of the Avengers and your husband would gleefully tear me apart for doing so? Not something I'm interested in."

"Yes, that would be a deterrent." She scrubbed her damp palms against her jeans. "And I commend you for being very professional in your kidnapping. No torture, no threats."

"You aren't worth as much, damaged." He paused. "Again, getting into character."

"Right."

Her heart seemed to skip a few beats once the plane was on the ground. The point of no return, and here she was with a serious case of the butterflies, almost to the point of nausea. "Time for curtains up?" she joked when he moved back to her, hands fumbling with her harness as he pulled a set of cuffs from his pocket. "I don't suppose those are trick cuffs?"

"Real thing," he replied, fastening them around her wrists. He checked to make sure they were secure, tightening the loops slightly. "Remember, the moment that door opens-"

"-you're the enemy. I know." She cast a quick glance toward the door, startled by a sudden thump and a barely heard order. "Make it look good."

He hauled her from her seat easily, hand clenching the back of her shirt in a tight grip. "Struggling would give this some added authenticity."

She nodded, and began straining against his hold as he dragged her toward the door. Useless on her part, she quickly realized. He far outmatched her in terms of strength, and she heard an audible tear as her collar began to rip.

The door opened quickly and he hauled her forward in one swift movement, barely reacting when she lost her footing and tumbled from the plane to the ground. _There's your added authenticity,_ she thought grimly as the front of her shirt threatened to cut off her air supply. _Bruised knees and torn clothing._

She was beginning to see spots by the time he loosened his grip and let her drop to the floor of the hangar, leaving her to land gracelessly at the feet of a man with graying hair and a very familiar- and obviously distraught- woman.

"I brought you a gift," Rumlow said lazily, and Jemma- who was woozier than she had thought, and couldn't seem to blink the spots away- decided that she might as well give in to the damsel in distress act, and fainted at Anne Weaver's feet.


	11. sad songs that keep us up all night

_AN: So sorry for the delay!_

* * *

There was a hand in hers, and for a moment she was confused. The skin was too smooth, the hand too small to be Phil's. No trigger calluses, no warm gold wrapped around one finger.

And then she remembered, and opened her eyes.

"Jemma." Anne Weaver stood, hovering over her with a worried expression. "You're all right, now," she said soothingly as Jemma allowed herself to show the panic she felt. It wasn't difficult, and it certainly wasn't feigned- it had been building for hours.

_You didn't know she would be here_, Jemma reminded herself, and her voice, when she spoke, trembled with uncertainty. "Professor Weaver?"

"I've been so worried about you." Anne's hand passed over her forehead, cool and gentle. "You've been through some trauma, but you're going to be just fine."

"Where's Phil?" She struggled against Anne's hands, trying to sit up. "Where am I?"

"You're with SHIELD, dear." Anne gave her a calm smile, pushing her back down to the mattress. "We've dealt with Agent Rumlow. He won't be coming near you again."

Jemma stared up at her, hoping that her horror would be misinterpreted. They hadn't killed him, had they? Locked him up? "Where is he?"

"In his quarters. There was a- a misunderstanding." She patted Jemma's hand gently. "He wasn't supposed to use so much force with you."

"What do you mean?" The confusion came easily, the trembling even easier. "You sent him after me?"

"Not exactly, but I'm so happy to have you safe. You were meant to be here, Jemma."

She was so calm, so gentle, that Jemma barely felt the prick of the needle. "Phil?" she asked again as her sight began to blur at the edges.

"Don't worry, Jemma," Anne told her. "We'll fetch him, too."

* * *

Phil had been given the task of making sure every set of agents made their way to their designated safe-house, which was a tactic designed to distract if ever he had seen one. He wasn't required to escort each group personally, but he was in charge of overseeing his own select team- Skye, May, and Trip- as they carefully combed through every bit of equipment and cargo loaded onto each plane and into each car, no matter how personal.

They had already taken the precaution of doing an initial sweep before Rumlow had ever set foot on the property, just in case, and had replaced every phone, tablet, and laptop with Stark-issue equipment. A determined mole would only be slowed down by such measures, but there was only so much they could do and still keep operations running. Phil could only hope that any remaining traitors had already been farmed out to other locations.

They found nothing damning during either sweep. Group after group of seemingly loyal agents were sent back out into the world, leaving Phil with less and less to do until, twelve hours after Jemma's departure, he was left with empty hands.

Empty, that is, other than a small group of intensely irritating people who thought he should do things like eat and sleep before leaving to catch up with Jemma's backup.

"I'm not even flying the damn plane," he attempted to argue, only to have May give him a meaningful stare.

"You're right," she said. "I am."

And then she left to lock herself into her own bedroom, leaving the way clear for Skye and Audrey, of all people, to bully him into eating a sandwich before shepherding him toward his room for a few hours sleep. They had not actually gotten physical with him, but he had been wise enough not to give them actual reason. He rather regretted that once he was alone, when he found the shirt Jemma had been wearing the night before laid out neatly at the foot of the bed. The housekeeping staff, most likely, because the sheets had been changed. In any case, the last place he remembered seeing that shirt had been draped over the footboard.

He took it to bed with him like the sap that he was, pressing his face to the weave of the fabric to catch what bit of his wife remained. A whiff of bergamot, a bit of that intriguing scent that always read as 'Jemma' to him. Not nearly as good as curling up behind her and burying his face in her hair.

His entirely too brave wife. She would be the death of him.

When he finally arrived at the safe-house, Jemma's backup were milling through the rooms like frustrated herding dogs. "Weaver sedated her, I think," Natasha told him bluntly. "All the audio picks up are normal breathing patterns. She's been sleeping for hours."

Not excellent news, but hardly the worst thing that could have happened. "Did she say anything?"

"Asked after you, asked what Rumlow had been up to. That's about it." Natasha glanced over at Bucky, who was playing a very intense game of solitaire. "Nobody's tampered with her jewelry, Phil. We would know."

"I believe you." He ran a hand through his hair in irritation, wanting more than just an assurance that his wife was _probably_ okay. "You have a lock on her location?"

"To the square foot." Natasha tapped on a nearby keyboard, calling up a map of the area. A red dot blinked steadily in one portion of the map, looking to be almost under a pine tree. "Thanks to Rumlow, we know where the hangar is, and Clint and Bucky scouted out a few back entrances after the sun went down. We'll be able to make our way in."

She tapped a few more keys, and the image changed to a rough kind of map. "Not the best of schematics, but this was the route they used to take her to wherever she's being held."

A series of lines and turns almost like a spiral, surrounding by an empty mass that might be rooms or corridors or who knows what. Better than nothing, yes, but it would be terribly confusing if they had to use it to actually navigate the place. "Is Rumlow still alive?"

Natasha nodded, calling up another frequency. This dot, in green, flashed nearly an eighth of a mile south of Jemma. "He's staying mostly in the same place- or is being kept there- but he moves often enough that I doubt he's dead."

"Good enough."

Phil slumped back in his chair, releasing a sigh. "I can't believe I said yes."

Natasha's expression turned faintly pitying. "As if she would have let you say no."

* * *

Her second attempt at waking went much more smoothly. Alone this time, Jemma noted with woozy relief. Alone, and dressed in soft pajamas the color of a stormy sky. When she found out who had undressed her, she would be adding them to her mental list of people she could not and would never like.

At least she felt whole. Untampered with, other than the slight fogginess of mind. A thorough search revealed only the one puncture site, at least that she could see, and she still wore her earrings and wedding band, much to her relief.

She was in a comfortable enough room, though one that was possessed of a camera in one corner and a door which held both a window and a slot for the delivery of meals. A cell, in other words, no matter that she had soft blankets and a pile of interesting looking books on a nearby desk. There was even a screen between rest of the room and the toilet, one just large enough to shield any private matters from the camera and door.

She tried the door first, both because they would expect her to, and also because she felt a foolish kind of hope that maybe, maybe it would be unlocked.

It wasn't. So she banged on the door, and called for someone, anyone to open it, and didn't bother to conceal her actual panic over the start to this mission that she probably never should have volunteered for in the first place. "Please, _please_. Anne, let me out!"

Someone had been waiting on the other side of the door, and when they stepped in front of the window the move was so abrupt that she jolted backward, half-falling onto her bed. The blonde woman from the briefing, she realized immediately, and realized with equal immediacy that Jemma Simmons had no reason to know Bobbi Morse, no reason to recognize Bobbi Morse.

So she faked unrecognition, allowing panic to conceal the truth. "I want my husband," she snapped as soon as the door opened, not fighting back tears when she felt them threatening. If they thought she was emotional and helpless, she'd give them emotional and helpless. "Who are you?"

"Hey, no worries." Bobbi raised her hands, showing that they were empty. "We were worried you might be injured, so we wanted to keep you under observation for a while. I'm Bobbi."

"And I'm where, exactly?"

"Another SHIELD base. Are you hungry?"

Her words came out so smoothly that Jemma fell silent, not bothering to brush away the tears slipping down her cheeks. "You're with SHIELD?"

"Just like you."

What a joke. "Have you contacted Phil?"

"Of course." Bobbi turned slightly away, casually but carefully angling herself so that she wasn't leaving her back to Jemma. Jemma appreciated the thought, in an odd way. Here was one person who didn't automatically underestimate her. She rummaged through a drawer, coming up with an armful of clothing. "The shower's just down the hall. We'll find you something to eat, afterward, and then Agent Weaver will want to speak with you."

The base- what little she could see- certainly shared a number of similarities to the Playground. Constructed almost entirely out of concrete and stone, for one, which she was very aware of as she followed Bobbi down a hall on bare feet. They passed a few agents, all of whom gave her brief, curious glances.

The shower was camera-free, so far as she could tell. The water had a faint metallic smell to it as it sluiced over her skin, the temperature never reaching much higher than lukewarm. She wished for a mirror- she would have liked to inspect the bruising she was sure lay around her neck- but as she suspected from a bathroom that locked from the outside, there wasn't a pane of glass to be seen.

Bobbi gave her a bright smile when she re-emerged, hair damp around her shoulders and dressed in clothing that fit well enough. "Do you know where my shoes are?" Jemma asked, staring pointedly down at her sock-clad feet.

"Don't you remember? Completely ruined." Bobbi patted her back, and it took effort not to jerk herself away. "Rumlow said he found you in bad circumstances."

What the hell kind of story had Rumlow spun for them? "I remember being snatched by a dead man while inspecting a deserted Hydra cell," she replied tartly. "And since when does Rumlow work for us?"

"Oh, he's been undercover for a long time, in one agency or another," Bobbi said with exasperating vagueness. "I bet that was a surprise."

"But I was with my team. If Rumlow is an agent of SHIELD, he had no reason to grab me."

"Agent Weaver will explain everything to you," Bobbi promised, taking Jemma's arm in a way that should have been companionable and was distinctly not. "Come on, you must be starving. You've almost slept the clock around."

No wonder she felt so tired. If Phil had been listening to the comms- and he had, of course- he must be worried frantic. "Was the sedative really necessary?"

Bobbi tipped her head in what was almost a shrug. "You seemed to be in distress."

Jemma resisted the urge to grump audibly. She might have issues with Fury, but at least he had never had her sedated against her will.

She was served a meal that had obviously had its origin as an MRE, which did make her wonder how strapped for cash the organization was. Was this standard? Were Gonzales and his board also eating reconstituted freeze-dried food, or was this a delight saved for the lower ranks? Bobbi tucked into her portion with an expression of resignation that made Jemma suspect the latter.

After dessert- _one_ Oreo apiece, which almost felt like an insult- Bobbi marched Jemma to an interrogation room masquerading as a conference room, and left her with the promise that Agent Weaver would appear shortly.

Ten minutes later, she did.

"I'm sorry that I made you wait," Anne said warmly, taking Jemma's hands. "There was a minor emergency, but it's been taken care of."

"Professor Weaver- Anne." Jemma clasped the other woman's hands tightly, keeping her cover story in mind. She was still very aware of the fact that she had no shoes, which did not seem to be a good sign at all. "Bobbi said you contacted Phil. Will he be here soon?"

"Of course he will, Jemma," Anne responded with a warm smile. "He's mopping up a spot of troubles in the Maldives, but he sounded very worried about you."

Jemma had half-expected them to dive straight into talk of the one true SHIELD and what a prat Fury was, and was a little bit surprised to find her former mentor taking this tactic. "The Maldives?" she asked in a confused tone. "What in the world is so important in the Maldives?"

"Another Hydra cell." Anne settled into a chair, somehow managing to manipulate Jemma's grasp so that now she was the one who held Jemma's hands, rather than the other way around. "He's fine; no need to fret."

Jemma hoped that whoever was on the other end of the comms had taken note of that reference. It could be a red herring, but for all they knew a thriving nest of Hydra operatives was indeed based in the Maldives. "Anne, I don't understand why I'm here. Is Rumlow really working for SHIELD? I was _with_ SHIELD when he grabbed me."

And why Anne thought that Phil would swan off to the Maldives while Jemma was missing- even to take care of an emergency- was a mystery. Phil was an excellent delegator, after all. Less excellent about taking care of business when a loved one was in some kind of trouble.

"Jemma, sit down."

Jemma did not want to sit down, because Anne's tone could only mean trouble. Jemma, however, had been well-trained by two excellent operatives. She sat.

"Jemma…"

Anne sighed, and shrugged. "Is it so surprising that Fury kept you in the dark about Rumlow's true allegiances?" she asked, and smiled when Jemma gave her a startled look. "He's always played the long game, and you were- what? Level five when SHIELD fell? He might not have even told your husband."

Perhaps that was how Gonzales still ran his version of SHIELD, but the one Jemma was accustomed to was no longer so strictly regimented. Admittedly, that had been largely Phil's influence. "But why take me?"

"You were exposed to something." Anne patted her hand sympathetically. "You're fine now, but we couldn't have you infecting the rest of the team."

As stories went, Jemma thought that was rather shoddy. "A contagion? What kind? Was it developed by Hydra?"

"I'll make sure you're given a copy of our doctor's notes."

They had even prepared a file? Hell. "Anne, if I had been exposed to something I would have remembered," she pointed out. There were too many holes in this story for her to accept it at face value, even in her own peculiar little play. The Jemma Anne had known would never have gone for it. "And if Phil knew that I have been exposed to something, he definitely would not be clearing up a 'spot of trouble' anywhere. What is going on?"

Anne released her hands, her expression shifting from warm and concerned to a kind of reserved consideration. "I'm afraid the situation is very complicated."

"Obviously. Is it-"

Jemma faltered, the hesitation purposeful. "Did Fury tell Rumlow to take me?" she asked in a quiet voice, noting the brief flare of interest in Anne's eyes. "Is that why I'm here?"

"And why would he do that?" Anne asked in reply, offering neither confirmation nor denial. She was obviously trying to feel out the situation, see what angle would serve their purposes better.

"Because I'm… because Phil would get so much more done, if he weren't bonded." Jemma ran a hand through her hair, averting her gaze. The statement was truthful enough. "Phil prefers not to go on missions anymore, at least not without me, and…"

"You're much more of an asset than a middle-aged bureaucrat," Anne said calmly, raising a hand when Jemma turned an angry glare on her. "No, I'm sorry. I wasn't intending to insult your husband. He's an excellent agent."

"I just wish Fury wouldn't think of me as a distraction," Jemma admitted. Not that he made the mistake of thinking (or saying) so these days. "It's not like I demand Phil's attention every hour of the day."

"Of course not." Anne leaned back in her chair, relaxing slightly. "Though a certain amount of attention is your due. As to your question, if Fury made such a request of Rumlow, I wasn't informed."

There was an odd note to her voice, as if she were trying to imply that yes, Fury had had something to do with it after all. She was laying careful groundwork to create doubt in Jemma's mind, just as Jemma had expected.

"Just to be clear, I was never exposed to anything, correct?" Jemma asked, meeting her gaze.

"It's complicated, Jemma."

"Either I was or I wasn't." Jemma stood and began to pace, not bothering to conceal her frustration. "Rumlow either works for us or he doesn't. This doesn't add up, Anne. You're running me around in a circle for no good reason."

Surprisingly, Anne smiled, and then shifted her gaze toward the mirror on one wall. "I told you," she said patiently. "She's not easy to fool."

Jemma felt her jaw drop, though the automatic expression of surprise came with a kind of smug inner smile. Of course someone had been on the other side of the mirror.

"He said we had to try," Anne told her with a shrug. "A waste of time, in my opinion, but you saw through it easily enough."

"Well, a kidnapping and being sedated does raise some questions," Jemma replied tartly, backing away from the door when it opened to reveal the older gentleman she vaguely remembered from her arrival. "You were the last person I would have expected to be Hydra, Anne."

"We're not Hydra, Agent Simmons." The man sat in the chair at the head of the table, folding his hands carefully in front of him. "We're the last remaining vestige of SHIELD."

Jemma gave him a long stare. "Not that long ago I was sitting at the same table as Nicholas Fury. You're hardly the last hope for humanity."

"SHIELD as it should be, Jemma," Anne said quietly, and patted a hand on the chair she had abandoned. "Please, sit down."

"Are you knowingly seceding from SHIELD?" Jemma hung back, pressing against the wall. "I'm not sure that makes you any different from Hydra."

"Fury's tenure as director is what led us to this catastrophe."

Hard, Jemma thought. Gonzales was a hard man, and one who didn't appear to like her very much. "As far as I can tell, Hydra has been lying in wait since the day SHIELD became an organization. I don't believe you can lay that entirely at Fury's door."

"Perhaps not. But Project Insight was carried out under his supervision."

And that of Alexander Pierce, but before Jemma could make that point Gonzales flipped open the cover on a small tablet. Even before he angled the screen toward her she knew exactly what she would see. Just skin, she reminded herself as she skittered down the wall, away from the image. This was her ace.

"I don't want to see those," she said, outwardly panicked even as she felt cold fury settle inside. Confusion hadn't worked for them, and so they went directly to blackmail via shame? Anne did not even have the grace to look embarrassed. "How did you get those?"

"We have our sources." Gonzales was giving her a grimly assessing look, turning the screen so that it faced her as she made her way along the wall. "This is the kind of weapon Fury employs, Agent Simmons. You would follow a man like this?"

What a hypocrite, asking her that question while shoving those pictures in her face. "Please delete those."

He settled back in his chair instead, leaving the image for her to see. "He could have fought the fight honorably, but he took down Hydra with_pornography_. Did he even give you a choice?"

She froze in her corner.

"_Did he give you a choice?_"

She flinched. It wasn't so hard to pull off this act, not with an angry man glaring at her in a small room. "I asked him not to," she whispered in response. "I begged him."

Anne reached out and flipped the cover over the screen, not even looking toward it as she did so. "He should not have disregarded your feelings on the matter." She left her hand casually atop the tablet, and whether it was to keep Gonzales from opening it again, or was a reminder that _she_ could open it at any time was unclear. "Did your husband agree with him?"

Looking for another weak point. Jemma had no intention of giving them that one- or, at least, not in the way that would please them best. "He was very angry," she murmured, wrapping her arms protectively around herself. "He was short with Fury for days."

"No man wants to share his wife like that," Gonzales said in a sharp tone, and did not look particularly apologetic when Anne cast him a warning glance. "Not angry at you, was he?"

"Why would he be?" she snapped back. "It was hardly my fault, after all."

"Doesn't matter." He tapped one finger on the corner of the tablet, barely an inch from Anne's hand. "I'll be plain with you, Agent Simmons. You have information we need to know, and we have precious little time to sway you to our side in any gentle manner."

"I'm not-"

She broke off, eyes darting toward the door. "I really don't know that much. Phil follows protocol to the letter."

She was willing to bet that, if Natasha or Clint were listening on the other end of the comms, they were suddenly snickering.

Gonzales tapped his finger against the tablet again, exchanging a look with Anne. "Prove your worth, and I'll make these disappear," he said after a long moment. "I'm willing to make many concessions if you cooperate, Agent Simmons. A woman with your talent could go far, in this organization."

"You could be a member of the board." Anne nodded slightly, and Jemma couldn't help but wonder if Anne saw her not only as a former student, but as a potential yes-man. Anne might find having a grateful colleague useful, when votes were called. "Imagine it, Jemma. No need to worry about being exploited, not again."

Whatever Gonzales saw on her face must have been the right expression, because he stood abruptly. "Perhaps you should give her a tour of the labs," he told Anne in a gruff voice. "Something to sweeten the pot."

This, Jemma reflected as he left the room, feeling her shoulders relax from their former position around her ears, this was not the carrot and stick dynamic she had been expecting.

Anne scooped up his deserted tablet and beckoned her toward the door. "I think you'll be impressed, Jemma."

Jemma followed her hesitantly, pausing only once they were out in the hallway. She was trembling, which was not an act, but suited her purposes well enough. "Anne," she said quietly, "it's against lab safety protocol to enter without shoes."

Anne looked down at her feet, some unknown emotion flickering across her face. "I think you'll be safe enough, this once," she said finally.

Well, bugger. And the labs would be what felt like nearly a mile of cold concrete away. If she hadn't been doing her best to play meek she would have been snarling. Politely.

"What do you think?" Anne asked her as soon as they stepped through the doors, and Jemma stopped in her tracks. No wonder they couldn't provide decent meals or shoes for prisoners. They had obviously been splashing out all of their cash on the best set-up Jemma had ever seen, at least outside of the Sandbox.

She went with her first impression, which was a barely audible "Wow."

Anne looked pleased. "Let me show you everything."

And she did, from storage to engineering to a biochem lab that inspired Jemma to feel a very particular kind of professional lust. "Even the academy, with its grants and funding, was never as well-supplied as this," Anne said as they made their way back toward the main entrance. "You could do anything with this equipment, Jemma. Cure cancer, create vaccines against the worst diseases… manufacture a drug that would bring the dead back to life."

Jemma nearly tripped over her own feet. "Absurd."

"We're not ignorant of your husband's circumstances, Jemma." Anne curled her hand around the handle to the main door, but did not open it. "He wasn't dead for thirty seconds- not even three minutes."

"It isn't something he likes to talk about," Jemma said truthfully, resisting the urge to scrub her damp palms against her trousers. "I don't like to press him."

Sudden sympathy. "Fate hasn't treated you very well, has it?" Anne asked softly, taking Jemma's arm with care. "You would tell me if he mistreated you?"

"Phil would never mistreat me," Jemma whispered in reply, horrified.

"Still, these May-December matches…" Anne began meaningfully.

Jemma allowed her annoyance to show. "More June-September, really."

"As you say, dear." Anne drew her through the door and down the hall, obviously heading back toward her room. "Let's gather your things and find more private quarters. I don't think you need monitoring twenty-four/seven, do you?"

* * *

"Good cop/bad cop," Clint said succinctly as the patter of conversation across the wire turned to more neutral topics. "Though Weaver could play bad cop well enough, if she wanted to."

"She's ruthless under that calm facade," Phil said, his voice taut. "Field-certified. Excellent interrogator."

"Remember the year she mentored the science kids for the inter-academy game of Capture the Flag?"

"You mean the year half the op and communications students ended up in the infirmary, snoozing off an aerosol-based sedative?" Natasha replied, quirking a slight smile. "Or perhaps you were thinking of how many POWs the engineering students caught in their traps."

"Both, actually."

"Hard to forget."

Bucky bumped Phil on the shoulder with a gentle fist. "Don't worry, September," he said, ignoring Clint's amused huff of laughter. "They're playing a long game."

He sighed. Hard enough to sit here today, knowing how seeing those images again had likely affected Jemma. "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

After the rather harrowing meeting that had defined her first day, Jemma was surprised to find that the next week was really quite ordinary. She had her own little room, now, that locked only from the inside, and if there were cameras, she hadn't yet spotted them. Bobbi had arrived the evening of her first day awake with more clothing and a pair of trainers (hallelujah), and helped her tuck everything away before escorting her to the mess hall.

The food did not improve, on that day or on any other. Seeing as Jemma never saw Anne or any of the mysterious board members during meals, she had a sneaking suspicion that the only fresh(ish) food on base was finding its way to a private dining room. Bobbi never answered her questions on their food-store outright, but Jemma was becoming skilled at picking up tiny little facial clues. Natasha had spent an almost inordinate part of her training focusing on just that skill. Bobbi's minute facial expressions, when questioned, seemed to indicate that what Jemma suspected was true.

Despite Anne's hints they did not set her to work recovering the GH325 formula, though Jemma guessed it was only a matter of time. They instead asked for her formula for the ICER dendrotoxin, which she was pleased to provide… in a slightly less concentrated version than the real SHIELD was equipped with. A simple little thing, she knew, and to her concern they continued to ask her to work on similar projects. All were complex in their own way, but all well-within her capabilities.

After a week of busywork, she broached the topic hesitantly with Anne.

"I thought you would get bored, eventually," was all Anne said, gesturing for Jemma to follow. "We didn't want to overwhelm you."

She knew better than most that Jemma's current workload was far from overwhelming, but Jemma had been careful to nurture a kind of faintly despondent air. Soulmates divided, and so on. There had been a great deal of toying meaningfully with her wedding ring.

It wasn't that difficult an act. She certainly wasn't sleeping half as well as she used to, and though she knew that Phil was, in all likelihood, safe with her backup, she still worried.

Worried excessively, perhaps.

Anne led her to an as yet unexplored lab, Jemma's unease growing as they suited up in full containment gear in the airlock. "Do you need a vaccine?" she asked, trying to ignore the faint nausea she felt.

"I believe you already made one," Anne replied calmly, her voice distant and dull through the gear. "Or an anti-serum, to be more specific."

Jemma's hand clamped down on the doorframe as she followed Anne into the lab, and it took real effort to tear herself away from that solid bit of support. That damn Chitauri helmet was resting oh-so-casually in a clear case, not six feet from her. "Oh," she said weakly, feeling as if the very floor had dropped out from beneath her.

"You've already made the anti-serum." Anne began to circle the case slowly, stopping when she was on the other side. "I know it's a great deal to ask, Jemma, but we need you to make something else."

"You want me to weaponize it," Jemma said in a brittle voice, her tone smoothed by the layers surrounding her. "It hardly needs help in that arena, Anne."

"But its current method of transmission is less than optimal."

To Jemma's surprise, Anne's expression was clearly unhappy. This was not the face of a woman who was eager to mass-produce an alien virus. "Gonzales has a plan for it?" she asked quietly, stepping toward the case with reluctance. "Anne, this virus…"

"Is your proving ground." Displeased she might be, but her voice held steady as she caught Jemma's gaze. "He was adamant on that point, Jemma."

"And if I refuse?"

Anne's gaze slid suddenly to the side, as if the blank wall had become very interesting. "He doesn't see the point in keeping prisoners, really. He's said more than once that the expense of housing and feeding the unwilling is hardly worth the potential gain."

Jemma tried to swallow, her mouth dry. "He favors a more permanent solution?"

"Not the one you think."

Compliance, in other words. "And what method does he employ to create more amenable employees?"

"A hybrid of Whitehall's method and some well-chosen drugs." Anne looked back toward her, appearing regretful. "I don't want that for you, Jemma."

Clearly, she had no choice. "I suppose I should get started, then."

"I was hoping you would say that," Anne said with a sigh of relief. "Your assistant will be in shortly."

"Assistant?" Jemma repeated, perplexed. "I really don't think I need one, Anne."

"Just a precaution. You can make him sit in a corner, if you prefer."

Ah. Less an assistant than a spy, Jemma suspected. Left to her own devices she might have found a way to skew her research, but this would force her to stay honest. Bugger. "I hope he's sensible, at least," she said tartly, beginning to inspect the equipment available. "And quiet."

"Both, as well as highly intelligent and easy on the eyes." Anne smiled faintly at Jemma's startled look. "I speak only the truth."

Bizarre. "I really don't care what he looks like."

Anne shrugged. "Fitz would be your ideal partner, obviously, but…"

"If you would let me make a call, I might be able to discuss _this_ with Fitz, or Phil, or any number of people," Jemma said with a good dose of irritation, gesturing at the room at large. "I might not be a prisoner in name, but that's really all I am, Anne."

"You're too valuable to lose." Anne flicked a barely detectable glance toward a nearby camera. "And I suggest you watch your tongue."

The inevitable reminder that someone else was watching, and though Anne might not know it, a good reminder to stay in character. "I miss him, Anne," she said, willing her expression to soften. "Please let me call him."

"Jemma…"

Anne rounded the table, approaching her with gloved hands held out. "I think you know that Phil Coulson is a liability," she said, and while the words were not unexpected, they hurt. "He's loyal to Fury, not SHIELD."

A laughable concept. "I don't think that's true."

"After everything Fury has done to him, and to you? Only the truest of loyalists would stay by his side at this point." Anne's hand settled heavy on Jemma's shoulder, solid even through layers of protective gear. "You have choices to make, Jemma. You don't need to be someone who throws everything away because of some random soulmark."

That stung, both for the obvious reason as well as for the fact that Jemma detested being made to feel guilty because being marked made her happy. Phil was no saint, but he was _hers_, and she loved the relationship they had built, even with all the missteps along the way. "I don't think I've thrown myself away, Anne."

"You could have better."

Dimly she could hear the air cycling through the airlock as someone prepared to enter. Her assistant, she guessed, though she had trouble focusing on that fact as she tried to force her breathing to steady. Soulmarks couldn't be erased, she reminded herself. Ignored, yes, and disregarded, but not erased. There was only so far she was willing to go.

She took a risk. "There are some things I can't do for you, Anne."

"Perhaps not yet," was Anne's calm reply. "Good luck with your research."

* * *

"Beat that punching bag any harder and you'll injure yourself," Natasha said from behind him, one hand snagging in his sweat-dampened t-shirt and hauling him back. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

"Not yet." He let weary arms hang at his sides, a part of him very glad that Natasha had interrupted his morning workout. "Any news?"

"She's still sleeping." She released him, moving to stand where he could see her. "Are you sure you want to make this trip?"

"I seem to recall someone telling me to get off my ass and do something useful."

"Something useful here, where you won't get arrested." She rolled her eyes. "Though getting you away from the audio feed will do you a lot of good, I'm thinking."

"It's difficult to listen to." He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the day's worth of growth he hadn't bothered to shave off yet. "Asking her to even go near that virus again- that's crueler than I expected them to be, Nat."

"I'm only surprised that it took them so long to bring it up." Natasha settled gracefully on a nearby stack of mats, crossing her legs in tailor's pose. "After the fuss Gonzales made at their first meeting, I half-expected them to toss her into whatever memory modification machine they had handy."

He had gotten that distinct impression as well, and he had certainly had a number of nightmares on the same subject over the past week. "I hate this uncertainty, Nat."

"So do I. I guess we should have chosen different careers," she said with a bitter smile. "Go, get ready. We'll be listening closely."

"You know this is a long-shot, right? Steve can be a little…"

"Aggravating? Preachy? So annoying you want to drop-kick him off a building?"

"Yes."

They exchanged a look. "How the fanboy has grown," she said dryly. "Honestly, Phil, with the grudge Talbot has against you- not to mention the way Senator Ward keeps lambasting the remnants of SHIELD- this kind of daredevil move is your only choice."

"Just because the President has been very clear about his own admiration for Steve-"

"Phil, you aren't kidnapping the man. You aren't causing any bodily harm. You're just… hijacking his schedule."

"Yet another item to add to my extensive rap sheet."

"Jemma likes her men bad, obviously." She smirked. "Have fun, Phil."

Phil did not think that this would be fun, not at all. "If I'm arrested, please rescue my wife and tell her that I love her."

"If you're arrested, it will be because Steve and President Bartlet have started a riot at some kind of academic conference."

"That's not funny, Nat."

* * *

Jemma tried to concentrate exclusively on the good points: her cozy bed, the complexity of the Chitauri virus that- now that she was no longer in danger of imminent explosive death- really was quite fascinating, and the comforting presence of her wedding ring and earrings on her person.

She couldn't dwell exclusively on the good, try as she might- the food continued to be terrible, she suspected that her comfy trainers contained some kind of tracking device, and even if the virus was fascinating in an intellectual way, she was having _terrible_ nightmares on a nightly basis.

And- and there was her menses.

For the best, or so she tried to think as she flushed away the evidence. And it was just on time, too, so it wasn't as if she were miscarrying. She would continue her work here, free of any need to cover up a pregnancy, and then after her extraction they could try again.

For the best, really.

Not that the loss of might-have-been didn't hurt, just a little bit.

* * *

_AN: This will not be turning into a full-fledged The West Wing crossover, but Steve Rogers and President Bartlet? A hilarious combination._


	12. the time we waste

He agreed with her too often, and that annoyed the hell out of her. What good was an assistant who agreed with every word she said? The beauty of working with Fitz was that at least half the time they were tackling different sides of the same problem, and if they agreed it was because they were both _right_.

Henry- who, to be fair, was quite good looking in that teutonic, chiseled kind of way- said she was right every step of the way, and it was enough to make Jemma want to have an unprofessional pout in a storage closet.

Admittedly, she would have been even more outraged if he had been determined to prove her wrong, so she supposed she had better count her blessings.

"I think we've made progress, Dr. Simmons," he said with a bright smile at the end of a particularly long day. "Drink?"

"So sorry," she replied coolly, purposefully waving goodbye with her left hand so that her ring caught the light. "I'm making an early night of it."

"Tomorrow night, then?"

"No, thank you."

"Even SHIELD agents need the occasional night off." He was keeping pace with her, which was very irritating. In a casual, light-hearted gesture he reached out, tugging gently on a lock of hair that had escaped her bun. "Come on, let down your hair for a bit."

She stopped stock-still in the middle of the hallway, ignoring the grumblings of the agents who had to quickly veer to the side to continue around them. "I'm sorry that you did not understand my polite deflections, Dr. Gardner," she said in a crisp tone, inwardly wishing that she were even half as imposing as Natasha. "I'm not interested, tonight or any night."

He almost looked crestfallen. "You're too lonely, Jemma. I was just trying to be a pal."

With benefits, she would guess, but she supposed that her currently uncharitable frame of mind might be coloring her perceptions. "I-"

"_Oi!_"

Their little tableau was shattered as they both turned sharply toward the noise. Bobbi Morse and some unknown man at the end of the hall, facing off with intense looks on their faces. Ex-lovers, Jemma would guess. Maybe more.

"No one told me _she_ would be here!" the man said to the hall at large, gesturing widely. "This is bloody entrapment, this is!"

"Hartley probably just wanted to avoid hearing you moan all the way here," Bobbi replied with an annoyed little shrug. "Calm down, Lance."

Jemma drew closer, more out of that inborn, instinctual desire to watch a trainwreck than anything else. Definitely ex-somethings. Bobbi looked uncharacteristically discomposed, and Jemma was torn between sympathy and a kind of smug pleasure. The sympathy was proof that her month undercover had not completely hardened her, at least. The smug pleasure, on the other hand, was solely because she had now been in this damn bunker for _a month_ with nothing to show for it other than a sincere desire to see the sunlight and an almost desperate need to spend a few hours wrapped in Phil's arms. If she had to suffer, everyone should have to suffer, dammit.

Her movement attracted Bobbi's gaze. "Excellent," the other woman said, grabbing the man's arm and towing him over to her. "Jemma, Lance. Lance, Jemma. Talk about soccer, or something."

She strode off quickly, leaving the two of them muttering a defensive "_Football_," in her wake.

"So, are you a fan of the new world order or is there a tracking bracelet around your ankle?" the man asked her bluntly after they exchanged silent, assessing looks. Henry, who had been loitering nearby, straightened in shock.

Jemma weighed her choices, finally settling on an enigmatic smile before saying, "Who needs tracking bracelets when we have such friends to keep us company?" She tilted her head toward the long end of the corridor. "Come on. The food's terrible, but the beer isn't half bad."

She hid her smile when Henry tried to muffle his grunt of irritation, and was grateful when he turned to walk in the opposite direction. The man- Lance, she reminded herself- watched Henry leave, his brow furrowed. "I know I just got here," he said quietly, angling his head downward so that the movement of his mouth would be more difficult to catch on camera, "but my gut feeling is that you don't want to make an enemy of that bloke."

Jemma forced herself to stay composed, her quick, brief flutter of blinking her only outward response. Henry's constant presence in the lab would have been bad enough as an assistant _cum_ spy, but his attempts to strike up a relationship with her had kept Jemma on edge for weeks. He looked straight past the ring and her mark as if they weren't even there, and she couldn't shake the feeling that he had been given explicit permission to do so.

She shouldn't have to guard herself against this shit. She was doing what they asked, wasn't she? Doing her best to be an excellent little convert as she weaponized one of her most persistent nightmares, which inevitably either kept her from sleeping or kept her twisting and turning in the night until she woke up in a tangled web of sheets and a cold sweat. She shouldn't have to commit adultery in order to prove herself.

"He's very persistent," she said finally, in a carefully modulated tone of voice. "I don't think he cares very much that I'm married."

She set off down the hall at that, and he kept pace with her, his gaze flicking downward to catch her ring before looking straight ahead. "Husband's not here?"

"He is unlikely to be transferred to this base."

Unless he were in a cell, and that would happen over Jemma's dead body.

Lance nodded. "Fucking inter-agency politics," he said sagely, giving her a brief look that indicated he knew exactly what she was inferring. "Just stick by big brother Lance, then. If need be, I'll hold him still while you crush his balls."

Funny. Less than five minutes acquaintance and she could already tell they would be good friends.

* * *

"On the plus side," Natasha said, sounding amused even over their spotty connection, "he really seems to be embracing this big brother role."

Phil paced the floor of his motel room, loosening his tie with his free hand. "Does it make me sound like a possessive jerk if I admit I like the idea of a glowering mercenary following her around?"

"Actually, yeah. If you're nice to me I won't tell Clint… or Jemma."

"Fair. You've heard good things about him?"

She snickered. "He's a complainer that gets the job done and keeps his mouth shut when the situation actually calls for it. A reluctant gentleman, if you can believe it." She paused, and then laughed again. "And Jemma just kicked his ass at scrabble. He talks a big game, Phil, but my gut says he turns out to be a useful ally."

"Any chance we can approach him off the radar?"

She hummed under her breath, the sound barely discernible from the static. "I can set it in motion. I discussed the possibility of finding outside allies with Jemma before she left; it might be worth the risk."

He considered the notion, idly watching the bedside lamp as it flickered. "Your gut instincts have never let me down, Nat."

"I'll see what I can do."

He slumped back against the pillows after he had hung up, releasing a rough sigh. Tomorrow, another round of negotiations, another round of reining in Steve and trying to smooth over the mess Hydra had left them in. Tonight, another set of nightmares that would leave him reaching for someone thousands of miles away.

He wondered about Jemma, in between (and sometimes during) the endless meetings that occupied his days. It had been, what? Four weeks now? Four weeks of worrying over what nightmares she might be having, and whether she was hungry or sad or scared or any number of things that he couldn't bear to have her experience. Consoling himself with all the things he would do once they were together was not as comforting as he might have liked, but he made his list anyway. Maybe she would enjoy a spa day? He would ask Pepper where her favorite spot was, and maybe she would be willing to accompany Jemma for a day of rest and indulgence. Though if Jemma didn't want to go out, he would be perfectly willing to draw her a bubble bath before giving her a full-body massage. He'd paint her toenails, too. His hands were steady enough.

He rather liked the idea, now that he had thought of it. Plenty of time to talk or for her to drowse in sleepy contentment on the bed while he applied the delicate layers of color. It would be a much more enjoyable version of his brief dalliance with alien-influenced art, and if she were willing he could think of a few interesting things they could do while the lacquer dried.

He moved toward the bathroom, shrugging out of his shirt. Lance Hunter had better be everything Natasha claimed he was or Phil would be having a long chat with the man. It wouldn't be a very polite chat, either, though knowing Nat he would have to fight her for the right to be first in line.

Frowning, he started the shower, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. The furrows in his brow were looking to become permanent, and examining them just made him feel worn out and tired. He hated the thought that Jemma would be coming back to a man who looked so… so old.

A vacation, he decided. He would get his wife back and then take a vacation, and then maybe, maybe, he would be able to look into a mirror again without grimacing.

* * *

A week after they first met, Lance showed up at her bedroom door with two beers in hand and an apologetic grin. "Care for a chat?" he asked, holding up the bottles and waggling his eyebrows in a manner that was far too hilarious to even approach seductive. "I asked for heavy wet, but they only had this pale piss, per usual."

If Henry had showed up like this, she would have slammed the door shut and turned the lock. For Lance, she stepped back after a moment of thought. It could be a coincidence, but the reference to heavy wet sounded suspiciously like a code phrase Natasha had given her. That was in addition to the fact that she sensed Lance had no intention of taking advantage of her- though if he tried, both Natasha and May had taught her a number of nifty tricks that would help Jemma incapacitate him.

Once the door was closed he raised a brow, handing her one of the beers before digging a familiar little instrument out of his pocket. He carefully placed one of Fitz's prized anti-bug transmitters onto her desk, waiting for the tiny green light to flash before speaking again.

"So," he said, popping the cap off of his own beer, "a really scary woman with red hair backed me into a corner a few days ago and made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Told me to tell you that the cliffs of Wales are high and steep." He rolled his eyes, taking a long pull on his drink as he continued to perform a very thorough sweep of her miniscule room. "I knew you were interesting, Princess. Didn't realize you had friends like the Widow."

"Natasha took a liking to me." She popped off the cap to her own beer, taking a sip while she considered him anew. "Just what are my captors hearing at the moment, by the way?"

"We're arguing over football, apparently."

"Hmm-mm."

"And Doctor Who."

"You hate Who."

"Though she said if you need in-house security, I can switch the feed to the sounds of two people having a very good time."

She frowned. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility that she would need an ally close at hand at night- within a few feet, even- but that wasn't a path she wanted to tread.

Still, at least with Lance there wouldn't be any actual infidelity. "I hope you have it on the right setting."

"Yeah, I was careful about that." He sat on the edge of her bed, apparently done with his search. "She gave me the basic details, fitted me with my very own tracking device, told me that if I hurt you she would track me down and eviscerate me. The usual."

"Sounds like Nat."

"She was very convincing." He began picking at the label on his bottle, more genuine worry on his face than she had ever seen. "What have they really got you doing, love? Our current overlords, I mean. Red made it clear that you insisted on going undercover, so it's fairly obvious that your self-preservation instincts are a bit lacking."

She grimaced, but supposed he had a point. "I'm researching an alien virus. Gonzales wants it weaponized. That part is easy enough, but finding the correct method of transmission is more complex."

"Not the kind of virus that grows Alien Junior in your intestinal cavity, is it?"

"No. The kind that kills by emitting an EMP blast radius of, oh, an eighth of a mile or so." She pulled out the desk chair and sat, feeling weariness tugging at her bones. "They think I'm the perfect candidate for the job because I created the anti-serum over a year ago." At his blank look she rolled her eyes, clarifying, "The vaccine."

"Someone caught it, then?"

"I did."

They exchanged long, assessing looks, and finally he shrugged and took another drink. "I bet you're sleeping well," he commented after swallowing.

"Like a baby," she replied dryly. "I'm going as slowly as I can, but Weaver knew me in the academy- I can only delay for so long before she figures out something is up."

"Well, if it helps, your time here now has an end-date." He raised a hand at her eager expression. "A vague one. After talking with Red I met Fury- who is looking great for a dead man- and they've made headway on reestablishing SHIELD's legitimacy. The day SHIELD is officially legal on American soil is the day I'm supposed to pull you out."

"ETA?"

"A month, at best. Maybe much longer."

She considered that. "I might be able to dally for another month or so."

The thought made her sick. There was only so much longer she could conceivably spend on animal testing. In a week- maybe two, if she were very lucky- human trials would be required. Where would they pull their victims from? Captured Hydra pawns? SHIELD agents who refused to change loyalties? Those unlucky powered individuals that Gonzales seemed to hate so much?

He was watching her closely. "You okay?"

"Eventually they'll want to test my work on something other than lab rats and chimps," she said quietly, worrying at the dampened label on her beer. "I have a very limited amount of time before they put a living person in front of me."

"You've got a vaccine, though."

She didn't bother to correct him. "Yes, but with a new method of transmission… well, I will only have some very educated guesses as to how long it will take for the virus to run its course. They'll want me to run a number of… of scenarios to determine the correct dosage for body weight, for special abilities. They might want me to work with the virus, to either increase or decrease the time from transmission to end."

He swore faintly under his breath. "And politics move as slow as mud, too."

"The unfortunate truth."

She hoped that her earrings were still picking up all of this. Likely Fitz had modified the device given to Hunter so that it would work with her earrings, rather than against, but sometimes mistakes were made. "Do me a favor, Hunter."

"I'm not volunteering."

"No, that isn't it at all." She let drop a strip of the label onto her desk. "They'll be suspicious if you suddenly turn cooperative, but a bit less resistance wouldn't go amiss. I don't want them to decide you're expendable."

He pulled a face, but nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I can play nice. Not with Bob, though," he added, waving his free hand dismissively. "It would make her suspicious."

"She's already suspicious," Jemma replied, grinning slightly. "I don't think she expected for us to actually hit it off. She might be a little jealous."

"Bob doesn't get jealous. That would require having a heart."

Jemma considered the way Bobbi's warmth toward her had cooled over the past week. They hadn't been friends, exactly- certainly there was no trust there- but Bobbi was one of her few points of contact. The other agents tended to shy away from Jemma, for whatever reason. "You might be surprised."

"You're seeing things." He stood, reaching out for the small anti-bug device on the desk. Quickly he pressed a small button before tucking it into his pocket. "Sleep well, Princess."

* * *

"_You're worrying yourself sick," he chided her gently, stroking loose strands of hair away from her face. "Even asleep, your mind is whirring away."_

_Dream-Phil was not as good as the real thing, but she would take what she could get. "Keep doing that," she said with a sigh, settling with her head on his thigh. "My head aches."_

_His fingers smoothed over her aching brow, one thumb tracing over the arc of her eyebrows. "Call an end to this, sweetheart."_

_She grumbled at that, turning her head slightly and refusing to open her eyes. "It figures that particular voice would look like you," she said tartly, annoyed that the little voice that had been chanting run, run, run since practically the beginning had interrupted her fantasy. "Act more like Phil."_

"_Okay."_

_One moment she had her head in his lap, the next she was underneath him. "Sweetheart," he said, breathing the endearment against her neck, "please come home."_

* * *

It seemed like every day that passed merely deepened Phil's already low tolerance for politics in general. The first day had been fun, in its own weird way. Appearing unannounced in President Bartlet's private rooms with Captain America in full gear beside him had made for some interesting reactions, at least. The in-depth interrogation Steve had received from the current leader of the nation and history nerd supreme (once Bartlet had recovered from his shock) had been an excellent sign that their efforts were not entirely in vain.

It helped, of course, that Hydra had gone from an immediate threat to tattered remnants in the wind. Bartlet had asked how they had accomplished that, of course- asked with the expression of a man who was genuinely curious, and appeared to have no information on the matter- but Phil had demurred, merely saying something vague about an inside source. The fact that the inside source was Skye's clever virus would only lead to more questions, and Phil had no intention of discussing Jemma's contribution with anyone.

But now there were arguments, and compromises, and Fury had somehow pissed off the attorney general over a hand of cards. When that card game had taken place was unclear, and for all Phil knew it had been ten years before, but its legacy was still alive and well as negotiations continued.

"Nick," Phil said one evening after a particularly aggravating day. "Either this ends soon or I'm extracting Jemma and going off the grid."

"'Soon' is pretty vague," Nick noted, giving him a one-eyed glare. "At the risk of being crass, you have two hands, Phil."

The noise Steve made at that sounded suspiciously amused. Jackass. Seeing as his own soulmate was miles away, Phil had expected a bit more sympathy.

"It's not lust," Phil said in irritation. "It's the bond. I'm stretched thin."

It was lust, too, but he certainly wouldn't be saying that aloud.

"What about you, Rogers? Itching to run off to Barnes?" Nick asked, and Steve shrugged.

"The bond doesn't hit everyone the same way," he said, paging through the latest batch of reports. "I miss him, yeah, but I don't think it tugs at me quite as badly as it tugs at Phil." He lifted his head to look at them both, and Phil got the distinct sense that he was downplaying, at least slightly, how he felt about the separation. "But I still get to talk to Bucky. Phil just gets a greatest-hits report from Nat at the end of the day."

Phil cast a glance at his phone. He was due for that call. Even those snippets of information were better than nothing. "Soon," he reiterated, picking up his phone and leaving the room quickly. His tie seemed intent on strangling him.

His phone rang as he was halfway through his shower, the first ring masked by the falling water. He moved quickly to answer it on the second ring, pressing the correct button at the tail end of the third as he stood naked in the steam. Belatedly he reached out to turn off the water before stopping himself at the last second, mindful of the need to keep the conversation private. "Nat?"

"With your daily report." The words, which should have been playful, fell flat. "Gonzales called her in for a meeting today."

"A bad one?"

"Human testing begins tomorrow."

He had been pacing the length of the small bathroom, and at that he stilled. Six weeks and four days since Jemma had entered that compound, and they had just now reached this point. He knew his wife well enough to know that she had stretched this process out for as long as possible, just as he knew that she would be sleepless tonight. They might not make her deliver the fatal dosage, but there would be an autopsy for her at some point in the near future. "Do we know the subject?" he asked carefully.

"No, and no word from Rumlow or Hunter, assuming they know." She paused, and sighed. "She's crying in her room."

Not surprising. "Is she… I mean, in other respects, is she okay?"

"Will she get through it? Yes. Will it leave a scar? Yes to that as well." There was a murmur of another voice in the background. "Bucky wants to talk to you."

Barnes' voice, over the line, was deep and rough. "Nat disagrees with me, but I say we pull her out," he said without preamble. "I don't like some of the characters around her, and if she doesn't deliver what they're looking for I think they'll cut their losses."

"What's your feel on how they're organized?" Phil asked, hating that he couldn't go straight to _yes, pull her out now._ They would go on to human trials with or without Jemma, and she would likely give him the dressing-down of a lifetime if her time away did nothing to bring them an advantage.

"Tip of the iceberg," Barnes admitted. "We get some from Rumlow, some from Hunter, but all three of them are kept on a fairly tight leash. The guys get a bit more slack, seeing as they more or less volunteered, but Gonzales really likes his hierarchy."

"It could be years before they work their way up the ranks."

"Exactly."

Silence on both ends of the line. Extracting Jemma now would be safest for her and for his peace of mind, but would it bring them any real advantage? They knew very little, and Gonzales now had a very useful weapon in his back pocket: Jemma's virus. One of Stark's labs had been churning out her anti-serum for almost a month at this point, stockpiling the stuff against a dark day, but that would only go so far.

"You don't like the people around her?" Phil asked, though the question didn't need to be asked. From what Natasha had told him, Phil wasn't a fan of anyone on that base either. Hunter had his grudging respect, if only because he had taken to his new role with enthusiasm.

"I think they were hoping to sway her with a pretty face and some muscles. Why they thought she would fall for it is the question." He huffed an amused laugh. "After all, if it were that easy Steve and I would have carted her off long before this point," he said, a definite teasing note in his voice.

"You, maybe," Phil replied dryly, rolling his eyes. "I'm not sure Steve would have swayed her."

It was the truth, more or less. Steve and Jemma were almost too alike to coexist; Barnes recognized her raw edges and managed to make them meld with his own. If Phil were out of the picture- and Barnes didn't have that soulmark- they could make a decent go of it.

"Steve never knew how to act around a dame," Barnes said lightly. "We need to pull her, Phil."

"Are you volunteering to take the blame, later?"

"Yeah, I'll let her yell at me." Barnes paused. "It'll kill you if we don't, Phil."

That was certainly true. He made the decision instantaneously, casting aside any thought of strategy. "Do it."

Barnes yelled something in Russian on the other end of the line, and there was a small scuffle as the phone changed hands. "We barely know anything, Phil."

"This is a long-term op, Nat. They're more close-mouthed than we counted on, and I'm…"

He sighed, coming to a sudden realization. "I'm making her choices for her."

"That you are." A pause. "You worry, I know. I do, too. I'll send her a message." Her voice turned tart. "As dangerous as this is, she gets to choose. You aren't her SO."

"I know." He leaned against the counter, resting on his elbows in a defeated stance. "Shit, Nat."

"You're wasting water, Phil."

He bit back the words of frustration building in his throat. What he wouldn't give to skip this ridiculous situation and go straight to course listings and the New York City skyline, complete with lazy Sunday mornings and Jemma curled against his side. Hadn't they served their time?

"Send your message," he said instead. "But if you even get the slightest hint that they're planning on harming her, I don't care what you have to do to get her out."

"Understood."

He lingered in the steam for a minute more after the call had ended, feeling useless and completely drained. Tomorrow would be another day of politics, and all the while he would wonder if Jemma were standing over an autopsy table with scalpel in hand, or if she would be facing an even worse fate.

What a mess he had dragged her into.

* * *

Waking up with a man who was not her husband on top of her was not at all ideal, particularly when a hand was clamped over her mouth and her body was pinned down by quite a bit of muscled weight.

"Shhh," came the quiet whisper in her ear, and while she couldn't quite pin down the 'who' she was at least certain that it wasn't her unwanted assistant. "The Widow sent me to ask you a question."

She stopped her struggling, warily lying limp against the bed. The weight against her body lifted and drew back, and a dim light turned on, revealing her companion. Rumlow.

"Not dead, then," she said quietly once he had drawn back his hand, and he shrugged.

"Too useful," he replied, and pulled a small, blinking device from his pocket. Another one of Fitz's bug disrupters. "If you want out, we have a twenty minute window."

The sudden offer of escape almost paralyzed her. Here was her free pass, unexpected and offered without conditions. An out. Within a few hours she could be once more in the company of friends, perhaps even with Phil, and that latter thought was enough to render her breathless. "Why?" she asked, forcing the question through even as her mind shouted for her to take the offer and run. "Why now?"

"You start a new level of testing tomorrow," he answered easily, but there was a furrow to his brow, as if the information weighed on him. "This is your chance to run, if you don't want to involve yourself."

The laugh was slight and automatic. She couldn't escape being involved. Even if she left now, the project would always weigh on her. "That's not a good enough reason."

"At least a few people seemed to think it was."

"Trying to salvage my fragile mental state?"

Judging by his lack of response, perhaps. Jemma acknowledged that she was feeling shaky enough to warrant that kind of action, and she had certainly wept for long enough into her pillow before sleeping. "I'm not leaving until I've discovered something worth… worth all of this," she said bleakly, realizing for the first time how much 'this' really covered. The deaths of thousands, perhaps. She might never rid her ledger of this much red, to borrow Natasha's metaphor. "Or until I have no other choice than to leave."

She didn't particularly want to be tortured, after all. If Phil managed to make his deal, they might strap her down just on principle.

"You're tough," he said with grudging admiration. "The Asset won't like this."

Bucky and Phil were leading this charge, in other words. Would that she could take them up on it. "Go back to your room," she said, her voice heavy. "I need to sleep. I have a long day ahead of me."

It was a matter of seconds, and then he was gone. They weren't monitoring the ventilation shafts as well as they could, she realized, tucking that bit of information away.

She curled back around her thin pillow, shaking under her blankets for reasons other than the chill in the air. She had volunteered for this. She would survive.

God willing, Phil would forgive her.

* * *

The text came at roughly six the next evening, when Phil was carefully attempting to keep a calm expression as another round of complaints began to circle the table. He hated everyone at that moment. Everyone other than Jemma and her guardians, who would be remembered in all his infrequent prayers for the rest of his life.

_A Hydra agent,_ the text read. _They did not ask Jemma to administer the dose. His death took three minutes and twenty-one seconds. When they delivered the body to her for examination, she was told to create a formula which would take longer to kill._

And extend the agony of the recipient, he thought, sneaking glances at his phone under the table and resisting the urge to frown. _Jemma?_ he texted back.

_Talking her way through an autopsy. All is well._

All was not well, but he understood Natasha's underlying message well enough. Jemma was alive, Jemma was unhurt, Jemma was coherent. It was the minimum he could ask for.

* * *

"You've done very well," Anne told her, that same smile on her face Jemma had seen when she had aced her final project in the Academy. It was out of place here, in this office that could have belonged to any administrator with a normal job and a liking for greenery. After two weeks of living on the knife's edge, Jemma found this little room disconcerting. It should be sharper, or brighter, or something other than _cozy_. It was hard to feel like she deserved cozy, not after two weeks of autopsies and nightmares and the feeling that her hands would never be clean.

Four bodies.

Four Hydra agents, she tried to remind herself.

Four _people_.

"Even Director Gonzales is pleased," Anne continued.

"I'm happy to help," Jemma said through numb lips, noting the slight sardonic shift to Anne's smile.

"Are you happy?" Anne shuffled the papers in front of her, averting her gaze casually toward her desk. "You do seem to have made friends with Agent Hunter."

Jemma briefly considered saying something ridiculous, perhaps about the length of his cock and a girl having needs, and then realized that was the same instinct that had had her shouting false accusations about prostitutes at Phil months before. "Friends," she agreed. "Though his favorite football teams are utter rubbish."

Anne smirked at that. "And your assistant?"

"He comes on too strong," Jemma replied, the words matter of fact. "I'm fairly sure that he considered patting my arse this morning, and only stopped because I was carrying a scalpel. What was the point of having him around, I wonder?"

Anne sighed at that. "Not my choice, Jemma."

"Gonzales thought I would just hop into bed with him, did he?"

"No." Anne paused. "Another board member thought it would be amusing."

Jemma considered her for a long moment. "Who?"

"She favors flowered dresses."

That threw Jemma for a loop. "The last time my path crossed with that particular person, she was torturing my husband."

Anne was silent at that. Jemma elected to keep quiet as well. No need to help smooth over the awkwardness.

"We know what Coulson is attempting," Anne said finally. "He's very close to cutting a deal, Jemma."

Jemma gave her a blank stare, blinking in a way that she hoped indicated a complete lack of understanding.

"Don't give me that look," Anne said with a glare. "Even if he didn't brief you on this before, I know you haven't been thinking that he's been sitting around moping while you were gone."

Jemma relaxed back into her chair. "He's very resourceful," she said in a vague tone. "You should see what he can do in the bedroom," she added with a tinge of wicked glee, her own embarrassment easily outweighed by Anne's startlement.

"If you don't provide us with something big, Coulson's victory won't go well for you," Anne said after a moment, recovering quickly. "I'm very fond of you, Jemma."

And perhaps she was, in some strange, mercenary kind of way. Jemma was an excellent tool to have around, though a stubborn one. She had a choice in this moment, she realized. She could say what Anne wanted to hear, exit this interview gracefully, and attend another autopsy the next morning.

Or she could attack.

It was more instinct than actual thought that decided her, as her right hand found the lip of the pot which held some kind of trailing ivy. The dirt around the ivy's roots was not firmly packed, which worked in Jemma's favor. Surprise also favored her cause: once Anne was blinded by the dirt, she hesitated for a second too long, allowing Jemma's fist to slam her head against the desk.

She went limp, but she breathed.

"Well," Jemma whispered to herself, suddenly wanting to kick the part of herself which continued to do ridiculous things like this. "Good. No, bad. Fuck."

In a very organized kind of panic she turned to Anne's laptop, bringing to mind every trick Skye had ever taught her- and a few Skye didn't realize she had taught her- to strip the computer of as much information as she could possibly gather that would fit on a thumb drive.

Except there were no thumb drives, she realized with a burst of irritation, and shut the screen with a flick of her wrist. Fine. She would take the bloody laptop, and surely Skye would be able to retrieve something from it. Even if they did a remote wipe, that would still leave traces, right? Jemma had to assume yes, because otherwise she had just wasted over two months of work for nothing. Tucking the slim laptop into the back of her trousers, she looked up. Rumlow's disappearance into the vents had stuck with her, even playing into her dreams at odd points. If he could move through the vents, so could she. It might end with her getting lost in the vents (and wouldn't she catch hell for that later from Clint, king of ventilation shafts?), but if forced to choose between hours of confusion and being on the wrong end of a knife, Jemma knew what her choice would be.

She climbed up onto Anne's desk and pushed at the screen covering the nearest shaft, and as she clambered up into relative safety she took a few seconds to brush her trainers against the distinctive shoe prints on the desk. It wouldn't fool them for long, but perhaps for long enough.

"Absolutely mad," she muttered, feeling a surge of adrenaline even as nausea over her own foolhardiness built in her stomach. "Nat," she hissed between clenched teeth as she carefully fitted the screen back into place, "if you have any hints on what direction to go, find a helpful ally to relay them, please."

She began to move south, toward the one exit she remembered, and then stopped. Resting on her hands and knees, cobwebs drifting against her face, she bit back a groan. Bloody hell.

East. East to her lab.

She had reparations to make.


	13. with a smear removed

Ventilation shafts were much noisier than Jemma had expected. It wasn't surprising, now that she was experiencing it herself, but she couldn't help but feel grumpy that both Clint and Rumlow- who outweighed her by a significant number of pounds- managed to travel almost silently.

Damn operatives. _Her_ students would be receiving a much more thorough physical education than the one she had been offered, that was for certain.

Crawling on hands and knees just produced a cringing number of thumps and echoes, and so with a grimace she lowered herself onto her stomach, resolved to slither all the way to the lab if need be. Assuming she could find the lab. She didn't exactly have a map, after all, and the vents were not labeled at intersections for obvious reason.

"Nat," she hissed, "I have to take care of my research first, so if someone could lead me to the lab… somehow…"

Roughly fifteen minutes later, covered in dust, cobwebs, and what she suspected was an alarming amount of mouse shit (may her vaccinations bless and keep her), she paused above a grate, eyeing the room below her. Another nondescript room in a long line of nondescript rooms. Storage, this time. Desks, desks and more desks under a number of dust sheets. Was she still headed east? Without a compass, she couldn't be quite sure.

She heard, suddenly, raised voices somewhere nearby. Not in the vents, blessedly, but perhaps in the hall outside of this room. Her name was definitely being bandied about, and the tone from what she could hear indicated that if the speaker caught up with her, she would be in a great deal of trouble.

She really needed to learn when to pick her battles. She could be sleeping right about now instead of risking contamination by contact with mouse excrement, but no. She had chosen contamination, more fool her.

"I'm telling you," the forceful voice roared from a corridor away, "she is _here_. The tracker says so!"

The tr-

Oh, bloody hell.

Jemma silently cursed the stars under which she had been born and every instinct that had led up to her making such a phenomenally stupid mistake. They weren't using the chip in her ring to track her. They were using a program on Anne's damnable laptop to track her, or a chip, because _of course_ it had been fitted with some kind of lojack device.

Her bad girl shenanigans were simply not up to par, today.

She pulled the laptop from its uncomfortable position, wedged as it had been against her arse and lower back, and regarded it in the dim light with cold rage. She needed that information. SHIELD needed that information.

Hell, Jemma _deserved_ that information.

She clenched her hands around the frame, feeling the slight shift of exterior that made her think that perhaps Gonzales had scanted a bit on durability when they had purchased whatever tracking module had pinpointed her location. Jemma flipped over the small machine and squinted at the back, looking for some kind of access panel. It was tempting to just smash the damn thing, but that would damage important information and alert the others to her location.

The door to the room below her opened. "You go south, I'll check this room."

The man in question looked at the jumble of furniture and heaved a sigh of irritation. "Traitorous bitch," she heard him mutter, and resisted the urge to smirk.

The door, weighted and on a hinge, swung shut behind him. He barely spared it a glance as he moved down the row of desks, stooping to look under sheets and aim a kick into the dark recesses under a few of the desks. She didn't recognize him, not even slightly.

Eventually he would think of the vents, or someone else would. She was surprised that they hadn't considered it yet, truth be told.

A faint but obvious explosion almost made her jump, startling the man below into releasing an irritated oath. Footsteps pounded against the cement in the hall outside, and he made his own dash to the door, only to be met there by an imposing man in black.

"Stay here and follow the signal," this new man said, his body language indicating that he expected this order to be obeyed. "Check every room on this hall. She's small enough to be subdued by just one agent."

She frowned as the subordinate agreed. Well, one against one were significantly better odds than she had faced just a moment before.

The man returned to his search as his companions left to deal with whatever catastrophe was now waiting on the other end of the base. A distraction, Jemma could only hope. She wouldn't want to run from one enemy straight into the arms of an invading army.

So here she was, dusty and fighting the urge to sneeze, and there he was, carrying a gun as long as her torso and grumbling under his breath.

And she was so very small and easy to catch, wasn't she? So unimposing. So weak.

It was a mad idea, she acknowledged as she tried to dredge up a few tears. But this was a mad situation, after all, and she had turned stranger situations to her advantage.

The dust and the prickle in her sinuses helped, and after a bit of concentrated thought on every terrible thing that had ever happened to her (not a fun walk down memory lane, not at all), she felt satisfied by the slick tears she could feel running faint channels through the grime on her skin. She carefully adopted her best forlorn and bewildered expression, and then purposefully let loose the sneeze that had been threatening.

The man's head snapped up toward the ceiling, and in a matter of seconds his gun was trained on the grate. "Playing hide and seek, Dr. Simmons?"

Well, at least he was using her rightful title. She squeaked audibly, purposefully scrambling in a very noisy way in the vent. "Please don't shoot."

"If you're good, I won't have to," he replied cautiously. "Drop the vent cover."

She did so, the metal clanging to the floor below. Hesitantly she peeked out the new gap, hoping her expression was suitably helpless. He raised a brow and smirked. "A bit dirty up there, huh?"

"There are mice," she whispered, feeling her bottom lip quiver.

"Not down here." He nodded toward the floor. "Come on, jump down."

She gave the distance from ceiling to floor a skeptical glance. "I'll hurt myself, from this height."

He opened his mouth, as if about to say something about injuries being the least of her worries. After a moment he sighed and set his gun down on a nearby desk. Any thought she might have had about weaseling her way out of heavy punishment for this stunt immediately disappeared. They wanted her whole and healthy, and that meant they either intended to rip her to shreds themselves or to make her compliant. A compliant scientist with a broken leg wasn't very useful, after all.

He moved beneath the opening, holding out his arms with a roll of his eyes. "I'll catch you," he promised, and the look he gave her as he said the words was chilling.

She shuffled to the edge of the gap, calculating angles and probabilities even as she tried to give the impression of fear. The fear was there, for certain, but for not quite the reason he probably expected.

"Now," he said sternly, and with an internal shrug and desperate prayer to _something_ she dropped from the ceiling, kicking out one foot to nail him under the chin and allowing herself to crash into his body, knocking him to the floor. The landing rattled her, but he softened her fall enough.

He was, thankfully, unconscious. And she might have heard bone snap as she had landed on his chest. The guilt was instinctual, but- as she reminded herself- unnecessary and impractical. She wanted to live, after all. Preferably with her mind fully intact.

Still, he was breathing. She took a moment to search him, on edge in case he made a sudden, if unlikely, grab for her. The cuffs went around his own wrists, but she did pocket his swiss army knife and taser with a satisfied smile. His gun was useless, at least for her- even if she managed to heft the incredibly heavy thing, she knew well enough that the recoil would throw her back onto her arse.

Wincing at the noise, she slid one of the desks under the vent opening. She wasn't entirely sure that continuing her journey in the vents was the wisest course- getting lost again was a distinct possibility, and she honestly had no idea where the hell she was at this current point- but could she really risk taking to the halls?

While she debated her next move, she retrieved the laptop and applied the screwdriver hidden within the knife to the back panel. She quickly disassembled the casing, nodding slightly when she spotted what appeared to be a tracker secured to the interior. Jemma briefly considered simply plucking out the tracker and reassembling the machine, but decided to be practical. She didn't need the entire laptop; she needed the hard drive.

As a bonus, it fit much more comfortably between the waistband of her trousers and her lower back.

The lights overhead flickered once, then again, before dying entirely. She sucked in a breath in the long seconds before the emergency lighting filled the room with a dull glow. Her companion was still out cold, and the hall outside the closed door was quiet. Could she risk a peek, to try and determine where she was?

She didn't have a choice, she decided. Crawling around in the vents for hours on end was no plan at all; she would have to try the halls and hope that the power outage had also interfered with the security cameras.

The storage room was in a section of the base that she had no familiarity with. She turned right out of the door, in the opposite direction of the explosion. Hugging the wall, she made her way swiftly down the corridor, hesitating at the corner. A pity she didn't have a mirror, but she couldn't hear a damn thing from that direction. She slipped around the corner, hand on her new taser. Empty.

After several such moments she began to feel her shoulders relaxing from around her ears, at least slightly. Whatever had happened on the other end of the base had definitely been serious enough to draw away the support staff, and even if the distraction hadn't been caused by an ally, she was still benefitting from it.

It took five minutes of walking before she found herself in a familiar area, and she gave an almost silent sigh of relief when she realized that she was a mere two turns away from her lab. A right, a left, and…

Carefully she peered around the last corner, checking for guards or stray lab techs. Empty.

An all-pervasive calm settled onto her as she faced the entrance to her lab. She didn't have to go in, thankfully: the touch screen outside the entrance did more than simply allow access. It also gave an outsider with clearance the option to completely cleanse the lab of whatever biological hazards were within.

It was the nuclear option, of course. Nothing would survive that cleanse- neither equipment nor samples- but it was a standard feature in all SHIELD labs. Admittedly, it was more commonly used to destroy research in the event of a full-scale attack gone south, or some kind of lab accident that threatened to leech into the rest of the facility. It wouldn't do a thing about the notes and reports that Jemma had already uploaded to the server, but in the last week or so Jemma had been carefully leaving out small bits of information- small, but crucial. It would have to do.

The major problem at this moment, of course, was the fact that technically, Jemma did not have the clearance to access the program she needed. She needed a hand, quite literally.

"I thought that I would find you here."

She turned slowly, casually, as if her begrimed state was of no concern at all. "Hello, Henry."

"Now you're going to be friendly?" He shook his head. "Really, Jemma, the Disney-princess eyes are not going to work. Drop the act."

She'd like to dropkick him into the next century. She allowed her hands to hang loosely at her sides, brushing her right against the lump of the taser in her pocket. "Out of curiosity, why did you choose to go along with Gonzales' plan?" she asked. "Fury is quite alive, I assure you."

He shrugged. "Gonzales saved my life during the Hydra takeover. And when I proved that my biochem skills were useful, we came to an agreement."

"Did it have anything to do with babysitting me?" she asked dryly.

"Sort of." He took a step closer. "I've been doing some of my own research. It's a theory I've been working on for years, now, but only after Gonzales took an interest did I make any real progress. I needed human subjects, you see."

She raised a brow, unsure where he was going but not liking the thread of conversation in the slightest. "Is that so."

"Everyone accepts soulmarks as a done deal," he replied, as if her comment had indicated actual interest. "I've figured out how to get rid of them."

Jemma hesitated before replying, her mouth dry. "Impossible."

He nodded. "To get rid of the physical mark, yes. But not to break the link. With the right drugs and the right method of coercion, I can turn just about anyone into Galatea, ready to imprint on Pygmalion."

And wasn't that a horrifying thought? It almost made her want to retch.

He moved more quickly than she expected, pinning her against the wall with her right hand held above her head. "I'm impressed that you managed to disable a guard and pick up that taser, but I would prefer if you didn't use it on me." He grinned, shifting his hips in a way that blocked her left hand from reaching the knife. "Don't worry, Jemma. It won't be so bad, being my Galatea. You'll be happy about it."

"That wouldn't be real happiness," she retorted, trying to pinch a pressure point with her free hand.

"Real enough for me. Come on, stop squirming."

Abruptly she let her entire body hang loose and heavy from his grip. He fumbled to keep his hold, cursing and tightening his hand around her right wrist painfully, and as he lowered his head she slammed her own forward, cracking her forehead against his nose.

_Hell_, that hurt. The only bright point was that it seemed to hurt him even more, because he dropped her to stumble back, instinctively bringing a hand to his face. She fumbled the taser out of her pocket, wincing at the flare of pain as she wrapped her right hand around it and aimed. The prongs latched onto the front of his trousers, and he shrieked as the electricity coursed through that rather sensitive spot.

She watched as he writhed on the floor, more furious than anything. Jemma Simmons as his Galatea? She thought not.

"I bet you have clearance," she said aloud, kicking him in the solar plexus for good measure. "If they had given you the word, you would have torched the damn lab with me inside. They could have always found another Galatea for you."

He didn't resist as she hauled him toward the panel, merely continued to whimper as she took his hand and slapped it against the screen. Inside the lab, the purge began.

"Stay here and think about what you've done," she told him sternly. "If you try to override this, I will send all of my assassin friends after you. Don't think I won't."

She had a lot of them, after all, and once they finished lecturing her for being such a bloody idiot they would need something to do.

* * *

When Clint picked up the call, he sounded almost distracted as he greeted Phil. "Hey, how's DC?"

Phil frowned, recognizing Clint's _I'm avoiding a serious discussion_ tone when he heard it. "Did someone die?"

"Nah. Just regular old stuff going on at chez assassin. Just us doing assassin type things… as one does."

"I know you're lying."

"Everything's cool, Phil, all right? We would tell you if there was an emergency."

Phil rolled his eyes. "Sure, after the fact."

"We have everything under control. Here, talk to Nat."

Nat's cool, calm voice filled the line before Phil could respond. "Micromanaging again?"

"I think we're close to an agreement, here." That they were keeping something a secret was obvious. His odds of getting an answer out of them, though: bordering on nil. "It might even be today. I want Jemma out."

"We'll get right on that," she replied, her voice faintly amused and- maybe, possibly- a tad annoyed. It made him suspicious.

"Is Jemma all right?" he asked, resisting the urge to flip Nick a bird when the other man rolled his eyes at the question.

"Kicking ass and taking names," Natasha told him solemnly. "Now get off the phone, Phil. I have things to do."

She cut off the call abruptly, leaving him staring at the cell in his hands.

"Problems?" Nick asked, his expression much more serious than it had been moments before.

"I think yes, but Natasha refuses to confirm or deny."

"She's bad to do that."

* * *

The problem with the well-timed explosion was that it had occurred near the entrance- aka, her exit. After taking down two men almost twice her size, Jemma was not in the mood to deal with that kind of inconvenience. Her injuries weren't helping: her wrist (fractured, perhaps) was aching and swollen, and her head ached.

Also, dropping from the ceiling onto a grown man might have saved her from worse injuries, but she still felt as if someone had swung a hammer at various joints.

She was tucked in a somewhat concealed corner as she considered her options, ears alert for any movement in her direction.

There- a solitary set of footsteps. Quick, heavy, and authoritative. Not good news for her.

"Oi, Agent Lewis!"

The footsteps paused, and Jemma released a quiet breath.

"The boys say that they found some kind of alien detonator near the door," Lance reported with a tone so innocent it almost made her teeth ache. "I'll continue your patrol, shall I?"

The agent in charge cursed in Italian, heading quickly in the direction opposite of Jemma. Footsteps that could only belong to Lance now made their way to her, and in seconds he peered around her scant shelter.

"You," he said meaningfully, "are a menace to society." He considered her bedraggled state. "What, were you hiding in the dust bin?"

"Could we leave first and discuss this later?" she asked hopefully.

"Bit hard to leave with every exit swarming with agents," he shot back. "Don't suppose you have the Widow on some kind of comm, do you?"

She tapped her remaining earring. She wasn't quite sure where she had lost the other one, but she guessed it had been during one of her two scuffles. "One way."

"Well, in that case you and I will head to a less-occupied portion of the base and let them blast us out." He reached out and slapped her on the back, raising a cloud of dust. He wrinkled his nose. "Can't believe I did that. I'll probably end up with the plague, now."

"We have a vaccine for _yersinia pestis_," she replied, following him down the hall at a trot. "I'll nurse you back to health myself."

"Stop threatening me! The idea is terrifying."

"That wasn't a threat."

"Bullshit, Jem. I'd rather play Russian roulette with the Widow."

He led her what felt like a kilometer away, into a section of the base that she had never seen. The emergency lights seemed dimmer, here, though she suspected that was her own imagination.

"And now?"

He shrugged. "We wait," he replied, leaning against the wall of an alcove. "All the exits are blocked. All of them. If you had given me some advanced warning, I might have, I dunno, _done_ something…"

"It was rather spur of the moment," she admitted sheepishly.

"Yeah, attacking a board member is definitely something you want to do on the spur of the moment." He gave her a thorough inspection, likely noting the number of bruises on display. "Met up with a few people after that, did you?"

"Oh, a guard. And my former assistant."

They regarded each other levelly for a few seconds. "Fair," he said finally. "Good job."

Each minute that passed increased Jemma's anxiety level. Why hadn't she insisted on some kind of two way comm? Surely Fitz could have rigged something. Or-

A blur of movement and an indignant yelp ended with Lance pinned against a wall, and it took a moment for Jemma's panic to clear long enough for her to recognize the latest addition to their party. "Brock!" she snapped. "He's with us."

Both men looked at her at that, Rumlow's face resigned even as Lance gave her an offended expression. "Him?" they both asked in unison.

"Yes, him," she replied ruthlessly. "_He_ was recruited by Natasha Romanov," she said, pointing at Lance, "and _you_ swore to get me out of here alive. Let's all work together, hmm?"

The two men exchanged a glance. "Do we get hazard pay for this?" Lance asked Rumlow seriously, who huffed a dry laugh and released him.

"For dealing with her? I'm planning on demanding it."

* * *

Natasha and the others evidently had taken Hunter's suggestion seriously, because one moment the three of them had been debating in quiet tones the merits of attempting to escape out the front, and the next the air was filled with dust and smoke as a portion of the wall at the other end of the hall exploded inward. The ceiling over that portion buckled and groaned in an ominous fashion.

"Oops," Clint said innocently as he clambered through the new opening. "Must have been load-bearing. We'd better make our exit."

Jemma hissed in irritation when Rumlow tossed her over his shoulder before she could attempt to pick her way through the rubble. "Excuse me," she said sharply, wincing at the pulse of her headache. "I can walk, and I don't appreciate being manhandled."

"You are trouble personified. I just want to get you out in one piece; after we're in the escape vehicle you can find some other way to injure yourself," he replied, his voice terse. Hunter, blast him, merely snickered.

To her annoyance he didn't put her down until they were next to the SUV. She had to resist the urge to squirm or give any other indication of her discomfort at being in such a disadvantageous position. She didn't trust him the same way she trusted Phil, or even the same way she trusted Bucky and Natasha. She felt almost exposed, draped over his shoulder as she was.

There was a second explosion as he stopped beside the vehicle, and she caught an upside-down glimpse of the now-demolished rock facade that had acted as camouflage for that particular wall. Her vision swam momentarily as she was placed abruptly back onto her feet.

"Looks like you took a few hits, doll." Bucky placed gentle fingers on her chin, tilting her face upward to get a better look at her forehead. "You probably broke his nose. Good for you."

She smiled weakly, sun in her eyes. "Could we please drive away very, very quickly?" She pulled the hard-drive from its hiding place, relieved that she would no longer have to deal with it digging into the skin of her back. "And I brought you all a present."

"How sweet." Bucky ushered her into the vehicle, his touch so light she barely felt it. "I'll keep that in mind when I lecture you later."

She gave him a disgruntled look as he fastened her seat belt. "I won't be sitting still for that lecture." She doubted that he would let her sleep through it, either.

"It would be a waste of effort, Bucky." Natasha started the car, catching Jemma's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Look at her; she's hopeless."

Jemma turned to glare at everyone else in the vehicle as they began to laugh. Rumlow, the sole exception, rolled his eyes. "I realize that I acted a bit rashly-" she began, only to be interrupted by Bucky.

"A bit rashly? _A bit rashly?_" He ran his hands through his hair, dislodging the elastic. His calm front was no longer quite so believable. "You snapped and blew your cover and all you can say is that you acted _a bit rashly?_"

"I'm very sorry," she muttered in response, stung. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off she was beginning to feel rather shell-shocked, and more than a little shaky. She wanted a shower and a bed and her husband, and then and only then would she allow herself the luxury of a good cry.

"You will be sorry once I finish my memoirs." He smacked his metal hand down on the dashboard in front of him, denting the plastic. "'Bucky Barnes and those two punk idiots who keep trying to shorten my life'."

"I think you'll need something snappier than that," Hunter said thoughtfully, ignoring Bucky's growl of irritation.

"_I will think of something._"

There was silence for a few minutes as Natasha drove away at breakneck speed, a silence that was only interrupted when she cursed quietly in Russian. "We have a tail," she said grimly, hitting the gas even harder. "Everyone has a seat belt, right?"

"Mine's broken," Hunter reported from the very back.

"Everyone other than the new guy has a belt, right?" she asked, and jerked the wheel to the side before anyone could respond.

Jemma was not near any of the windows, crammed into the middle seat between Clint and Rumlow as she was. The sudden turn sent her crashing against Clint, who continued to load the gun he held with remarkably steady hands. "Nat's pretty good at defensive driving," he informed her casually. "Keep your head down, okay?"

Not an easy thing to do, given the quick turns Natasha was executing and the way her op bookends were aiming their weapons out of the open windows.

She risked a glance back. Two pursuing cars, now, and Hunter had flattened himself against the seat, clinging onto the upholstery as each bump threatened to send him flying up toward the ceiling. He was cursing with impressive creativity.

To think she could have been curled up in her small bed at this very moment- and that reminded her that her sense of time was very askew, because her body said that it was midnight when it was obviously mid-morning. Still, it was much better to be here, facing death for the umpteenth time on that particular day, then to be waiting to deliver death herself the next.

Phil probably knew all about her research, she realized miserably, trying to stay small and contained so that she wouldn't jostle her companions. Now they had both been party to unethical experimentation.

She rather wished that she had the excuse of death and resurrection to obscure those memories. Not really, but… just a little.

Natasha stepped on the gas again, though Jemma could have sworn that her foot had already had the pedal pressed against the floor. "It's just like Budapest!" she called back, a kind of manic glee in her voice.

"Dammit, Nat, not everything is like fucking Budapest!" Clint yelled in response, taking another shot out the window.

"I seem to recall a chase across a bridge-"

"I was chasing _you_-"

"And when you caught up you said-"

"Stop flirting!" Rumlow snapped. "We don't need to hear the entire damn courtship."

Natasha laughed in return, swung the vehicle into another quick turn around a stand of trees, and Jemma fought the urge to vomit.

Maybe a concussion? She supposed she might have a small concussion. And possibly whiplash.

Assuming they ever found a safe place to stop, Bucky might find her a captive- though not willing- audience after all.

* * *

Phil was finding it hard not to smirk. After so many weeks, victory. Finally.

It was Director May who had given them the key, and in doing so she had also delivered a number of surprises. Not only had she used her various connections to legitimize SHIELD in a number of other countries- including England, which would be a boon for both Jemma and his in-laws- but she had found definitive proof of Talbot's invasion of Providence. The man had been so very careful about his movements that for the longest time Phil had despaired of actually pinning the invasion on him, but now they had video and mission reports and witness testimonies. This might not have been enough, if the information had remained confidential, but Director May had kindly alerted her contacts within the Canadian government before forwarding the proof to Fury.

Unsurprisingly, while the base itself was SHIELD property, Canada had taken great exception to the casual way American military had crossed the border. So much so that a number of phone calls had been made to President Bartlet and other key members of the government, which had led to an emergency meeting in the war room, which had led to a spirited bargaining session between Fury and the attorney general, which had led to a mess of paperwork and doses of aspirin all around. When everyone had finally dispersed at eleven in the evening, it had been with SHIELD once more legitimate, a number of official pardons in hand, and Talbot facing a rather lengthy list of charges.

A good day, Phil thought. Once he reassured himself that Jemma had been safely extracted he had plans to pour a double of something and raise it in celebration.

Fury entered their suite ahead of him and stopped stock still in the doorway. "When did you get here?"

"A few hours ago," was his answer. Natasha continued. "We ordered room service. Told them to put it on your tab."

Phil managed to push past Nick after a moment of effort and scanned the group of assassins and operatives lounging on the sofa and chairs. Natasha, Clint, Rumlow, Trip, Barnes, and Lance Hunter. He almost missed Jemma- she was curled up in an armchair facing away from the door- but after a few seconds Natasha reached out and tapped her on the arm. "Phil's here," Natasha said.

Jemma bounded up, wincing slightly as she did so, but whatever was paining her did not keep her from crossing the room in a matter of seconds. Pleasantly stunned, he wrapped his arms around her tightly, lowering his head to nuzzle his nose against her hair. It smelled like his shampoo, his conditioner. She smelled like his soap.

"She has a small concussion," Barnes informed him. "Where's the punk?"

Phil missed whatever answer Fury had for him as he turned his attention back to Jemma, pulling back just enough to note that she was beginning to slump against him, her eyelids heavy. There was a bruise on her forehead and a worrisome bump. "How did you get this?" he asked her quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face.

"Broke my assistant's nose," she replied simply, snuggling back against him and yawning. "Take me to bed?"

"No vigorous activity," Natasha said dryly. "She's been awake long enough, though. I think she'll live." She followed them into Phil's room. "She almost drowned herself in the shower."

"She wouldn't let me take a shower by myself," Jemma said, grumpy. "And she drives like a demon."

Phil considered his wife carefully, and then gave Natasha a questioning look. "You'd be tired too, after the day she's had." Natasha shrugged and began to pull back the sheets and blankets. "Go wash up, Phil. I'll stay with her until you get back."

She jerked her head toward the bathroom door with a commanding air, and reluctantly Phil obeyed. He hurried through his shower and evening routine, noting the dirty towels in one corner and the litter of bandage wrappers and used antiseptic cloths in the waste basket.

Jemma was sitting against the headboard when he emerged, the large t-shirt she wore revealing a number of bruises and a bandaged wrist that he had missed on his first inspection. She smiled at him, looking more present than she had even ten minutes before. "Natasha just left," she said, and stifled another yawn. "I haven't felt this tired since… it's been a while."

He turned off the overhead light, leaving her sitting in a pool of lamplight. He had had dreams like this, but none where such livid bruising covered her limbs. That didn't stop him from feeling as if she might disappear into thin air. "Their extraction plan obviously didn't go as well as I might have hoped."

Surprisingly she blushed, slumping back against the pillows. "If I promise to explain everything in the morning, will you let me sleep now?"

He had a sudden vivid surge of memory- her mid-air evacuation, that episode with the grenade on the train, her dive for Fury months before. "Am I going to like it?"

"Bucky yelled," she muttered. "A lot."

He thought back to that phone conversation he had had with Natasha that morning. Apparently the extraction had already been well underway at that point, and judging by Jemma's expression she had put it into motion herself. "I think some sleep would do us both good," he said finally, giving her a smile as he slid into bed next to her. He didn't want to start any kind of debrief tonight, anyway, not when she was in such a state. Better to take care of her and indulge his own need for closeness.

"Did good things happen for you today?" she asked, curling against his side with her head on his shoulder. She yawned again, and brought up a hand to sweep her fingertips against his cheek. "Have you been sleeping at all?"

"Not much," he admitted, still feeling vaguely surprised that she was even here. He let one hand rest lightly against her hair. As soft as he had remembered, sliding smooth under his hand. It felt almost real, now: her being here when for so long she hadn't. "You've been officially pardoned, by the way."

"That's nice." She smiled up at him, hesitant. "Hopefully that covers what I had to do… back there. For Gonzales."

"It will." He'd insisted on reviewing the wording of all the pardons for just that reason. Jemma wasn't the only one who had been forced into actions she would not have otherwise taken. "The warrant for your arrest in England has also been officially rescinded. How does it feel, to be a free woman?"

"Sleepy." She blinked wearily, a lock of hair sliding down over her face. "You do know what I've done, Phil?"

"You've been very brave." He waited until she met his gaze before continuing. "Not that I expect anything less from you. We can talk about it in the morning, if you like, but Natasha kept me fully informed. No one blames you for anything."

She nodded slightly, though he doubted that she would let the matter end there, at least in her own mind. Her worries would buzz and percolate until she found some kind of answer or fix for the situation, and until then he could only give her what support she would accept.

"The anti-serum..." she began.

"We have a stockpile ready and waiting."

"I did manage to sneak a few minor errors into the formula." She waited while he turned off the lamp and then snuggled close. "Probably won't delay them for long."

"Anything you consider a minor error is probably a major stumbling block for anyone else." He smiled even as he felt a tear slip down his cheek, and wrapped his arms securely around her. "I'm so glad to have you back, sweetheart."

"I love you. I love how warm you are," she mumbled. "Don't leave without waking me up in the morning."

"I love you, too." Here was what he had been missing- her breath against his neck and the line of her body stretched against him, one leg draped over his. He would probably wake up with a numb arm and her cold feet pressed against his calves, and he was actually looking forward to it.

Sleeping alone, he had come to find, was just too lonely to bother with.


	14. the dark dispersed

At first she wasn't entirely sure where she was. The bed was a definite improvement on the one in her quarters, the blankets softer and warmer, and the arm around her waist-

Well, she had certainly been lacking in male companionship (by choice) during her time undercover. And she recognized the way this arm felt against her, and the hand that lay curled loosely on the sheets in front of her.

_Home_.

Or a hotel, to be more precise, but with Phil here it definitely counted as home.

Grinning, she wriggled back against him, pleased when she felt his morning erection and even more pleased when his arm tightened around her.

"You have a concussion," he informed her in a gravelly voice, nonetheless pressing his hips against her. "No vigorous activity."

"It doesn't have to be vigorous," she protested with a pout, and then yawned. "It could be sleepy and gentle and loving."

"It could be, but I'm not taking any chances. I like your brain the way it is."

Jemma sighed softly, aware that he was right but displeased to be postponing reunion sex. "I do have a headache," she admitted, stroking his fingers in lieu of the more intimate contact she craved. "And I don't regret breaking his nose."

He chuckled quietly, delightfully warm and solid against her back. His fingers flexed under hers, his hand turning so that he could stroke her fingers in turn. "How exactly did that happen?"

Jemma was well aware that he wouldn't like her next reveal. "He made a deal with Gonzales," she said slowly. "Apparently he's been doing research into soulbonds- how to break them, basically-"

His arm tightened around her ribs. "Was he planning on stealing my Jemma?" he asked in a low, surprisingly dangerous voice. Logically she knew that the phrase should annoy her, but instead she found herself aroused. Frustratingly so, given her physical state.

"I'm not allowed vigorous activity," she protested, squirming in his grip as she attempted to face him. "He was going on and on about Galatea and Pygmalion-"

"Who?"

"Ovid," she explained, distracted. "Like _My Fair Lady._ Pygmalion carved his ideal woman from marble, and when she came to life she imprinted on him. Basically."

He frowned. She had missed that frown. "I have a feeling you just skipped a significant portion of the story."

"Aphrodite was involved."

"Right." His frown eased into a slight smile, though she could tell that he was dreadfully upset by the implications. "You would make a terrible Stepford wife, sweetheart."

"If it helps, when I last saw him he was crying like a baby. I tased him in the balls," she said proudly, pleased when he didn't even make an instinctual wince. "I think the voltage was set rather high."

"That does make me feel a little better," he admitted.

His grip eased, one of his hands stroking gently down her side before moving to her back. "I was hoping for passionate reunion sex," she said after a moment, the fingertips of one hand relearning the lines of his jaw and neck. "Passionate baby-making sex, even."

"I would be lying if I said that I hadn't spent the last few months hoping for the same thing." His hand lingered at the small of her back, barely stroking lower. Ever the gentleman. "This is good, though. I kept waking up trying to wrap myself around a pillow- not quite the same thing."

"And I've missed my heat source," she teased. "Honestly, Phil, Gonzales could improve his staff's morale by leaps and bounds if he invested in warm beds and good food."

His gaze sharpened. "Jemma."

She repressed her sigh and snuggled close, tucking her head under his chin. "Thin blankets and freeze-dried, reconstituted food," she said in a quiet voice. "That wasn't… Phil, I'm fine. Especially now that I'm here." Here, where she was safe and warm and didn't have to watch her back at all hours of the day. "This is a very warm bed."

He grumbled under his breath. She had forgotten how much she liked hearing that rumble of sound through his chest. Maybe she could keep him here all day, instead of losing him to politics. "How's your stomach?"

"Fine."

"Pancakes and bacon?"

She wriggled in excitement without even considering the movement. "And tea? Real tea?"

"Real tea."

He attempted to roll away to grab the phone, but was hampered by her stubborn insistence on clinging to him. Jemma refused to apologize; after being without him for so long she was disinclined to let go over something like breakfast.

Though, pancakes… she really wanted pancakes.

She also wanted to reacquaint herself with how his neck and chest felt against her mouth. Not vigorous activity, she decided. Not unless he turned it into vigorous activity, which he was too controlled to allow. His voice did go up almost half an octave when she licked the sensitive skin under one ear, though, which was satisfying.

He hung up the phone roughly after placing their order, his other hand pressed against her upper back. "Jemma, you are trying my patience."

"I didn't even get a kiss last night," she told him, mouth lingering over the curve of his neck. Maybe she would send him to his very important meeting with a hickey. It was a cheering thought. "Months without you and we just went straight to sleep."

"You were- are- injured." He was holding himself still with some difficulty, she could tell. "Practically asleep on your feet." His hand tangled in her already mussed hair. "Come here; I'm perfectly happy to kiss you now."

She moved backward quickly, at that- too quickly, really, given the way her head ached, though he slid his fingers from her hair effortlessly at her first sign of movement. "No. I haven't brushed my teeth yet."

He sat up and raised a brow, looking a bit incredulous. "Jemma."

"Our first kiss in months deserves more than morning breath, don't you think?" she replied, her tone light, and moved off the bed as swiftly as she could manage. He sat and watched her go, and she could read both his worry and that ever-present note of admiration for her form as she walked toward the bathroom.

And then she locked the door behind her, out of habit. After a moment of thought, she undid the lock.

A bruised, unkempt version of herself stared back at her in the mirror. She wrinkled her nose at her own reflection, noting her dire need for a haircut. She had hardly been expecting a chance to swing by a salon on their way back from near death and destruction, but the part of Jemma that was a little bit vain would have appreciated looking less knocked about.

She attended to her needs quickly, casting a longing glance at the tub even as she admitted to herself that she would only fall asleep halfway through a soak. Pancakes, tea, and a nap were what her future held, and that would have to do.

He was still waiting where she had left him, though he held a tablet loosely in hand, as if he had considered checking his email only to be distracted halfway through. "What's good for the goose is good for the gander," he said dryly, dropping the tablet onto the bed and placing his hands on her hips to forestall her when she drew closer. "Give me five minutes."

Well, to protest would be hypocritical.

She busied herself by examining the room while she waited. Jemma had glanced over it the night before, but in those hazy hours after escape nothing had seemed quite real. First there had been the interminable flight on the quinjet to DC, during which Bucky had kept her awake with a lecture that she now only half-remembered. Then, after landing the plane in a secluded spot and surviving the terrible traffic downtown, they had snuck past the various guards in the hotel and broken into the admittedly sumptuous suite of rooms on the top floor. Jemma hoped that she would never again have to use a dumbwaiter for personal transport.

And then, of course, Natasha had stepped in to supervise her in the shower, all because Jemma had fallen asleep on her feet while the others had been sweeping the rooms for bugs. Of course she had fallen asleep! After being awake for nearly twenty-four hours at a stretch, anyone would have fallen asleep.

Phil's things were laid out neatly in the dresser, his suits hung with care in the closet. The only signs of disorganization were the way his suit jacket and tie from the evening before lay rumpled on a chair. She picked them up, returning the jacket to the closet and smoothing the blue silk.

"I was in a bit of a hurry, last night," he said from behind her, the door to the bathroom so well-oiled that she had barely heard it open. "You don't need to worry about picking up after me, sweetheart."

She turned and smiled, the tie still in her hand. "Hanging up one jacket is a far cry from drudgery." She carefully placed the tie on the dresser, feeling absurdly fond of it for no other reason than that it had been the one he had been wearing the night before. She had a vague memory of pressing her cheek against it and asking him to take her to bed.

"Do I get that kiss, now?" he asked with a smile, arms slipping around her to pull her close. "Now that conditions are optimal," he teased.

She blushed, laughing. "Perhaps I made too big a deal of this. It could be dreadful. I'm out of practice."

"I'm out of practice, too, but I think it's like riding a bike." His hands slipped under the long t-shirt she wore, his expression shifting to shocked amusement when he discovered she wasn't wearing any underwear. "Jemma Simmons."

"I didn't exactly stop to pack," she pointed out, rising to her toes to help bridge the gap between their heights. She bit back a squeak when he suddenly tickled the spot where thigh met the curve of her arse. "Unfair!"

"You're right, your state of undress is unfair."

He kissed her before she could reply, mouth slanting over hers with familiar ease. She heard him make a quiet noise low in his throat, half moan, half growl, as she relaxed pliant against him, his hands curving warm over her bare skin. Not at all like riding a bike- easier than that, and certainly a good deal more exciting.

She pulled back, flinching, when his fingertips pressed against a raw patch on her lower back. "Sorry," she said, allowing him to turn her so that he could get a better look. "I stole a hard drive and needed a place to stash it," she explained, twisting to try and get a glimpse of his face. He was frowning as he examined the abraded skin. "And then Henry pinned me against the wall, and…"

She paused, frowning herself. "I hope it wasn't damaged in the scuffle," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

He muttered something in response that she didn't quite catch, but it sounded as if he were damning modern technology to hell and back.

"I think you should kiss me again." He was still frowning at her lower back, and it struck her that she hadn't exactly had a moment to examine the damage in a mirror herself. "Is it that bad, Phil?"

"As these things go, no," he admitted after a moment. "It looks worse than it is." He stood, allowing the hem of her shirt to drop. "Come here."

Another kiss, his hands once more dipping under the hem of her shirt and settling on her hips. "Let's find you something else to wear," he said afterward, his hands slipping around her waist- avoiding the worst spots- to keep her close. "Breakfast should be here soon."

A pair of his pajama bottoms and his robe completed her look, and though she knew that she looked ridiculous with the hems puddled around her feet and her hands obscured by the sleeves, there was a great deal of comfort to be had in being surrounded by hints of his cologne and scent. As a bonus, she was toasty warm.

To her relief the living room was empty. It was early- she had woken after not much more than six hours of sleep, and was already looking forward to curling up under the covers again sometime soon- but she wouldn't have been surprised to find Fury or one of the many operatives in their crew lying in wait. Instead she settled on the couch with her husband, curled up half in his lap as he examined the bruising and scrapes on her knuckles.

"The vents?" he asked.

"Maybe." She thought back, remembering smacking the back of one hand against a desk during her tumble from the ceiling. "Or maybe when I took the guard out."

He shook his head slightly, looking as if he were attempting to repress a grin. "Fire extinguisher?"

"No, which is a pity." She yawned and settled her head against his shoulder. "I lured him under the vent opening by appearing helpless, and then I used my body weight as a weapon."

His laugh sounded just a little bit hysterical. "Danger from above, Jem?"

"I don't think he expected that kick in the head."

"More fool him." He brushed his lips lightly against her palm, a slight tickle of skin and scruff. "I don't want to leave you, but-"

"Politics?" she finished. "I know, Phil. There are still loose ends that need to be tied up, I'm sure."

He nodded. "Loose ends in this country, and others besides. Belgium is still refusing to even start up negotiations, and they aren't the only ones."

"Everyone was hard hit when Hydra awakened. We can't expect to regain everything in a handful of months. It could be decades before some countries will accept SHIELD inside their borders once more."

"So we build up to it." He pressed a kiss against her hairline and she hummed sleepily in reply. If her tea didn't arrive soon she would likely fall asleep again.

Luckily their breakfast arrived only a few minutes later, and the sight of the tray was enough to perk her back up again. She smiled at her first sip of tea- so much better than the bargain-brand tea bags they had given her, the ones which produced stewed tea no matter how careful she was- and gave a happy sigh when she beheld the pot of butter beside her plate.

"I had almost forgotten about butter," she said giddily, adding more than was perhaps healthy to the stack of pancakes in front of her.

"Your memory is probably hazy on bacon and syrup, too." He nudged both closer to her. "Reacquaint yourself with both."

Well, she could hardly say no to such a request.

When he did leave her an hour later it was with a kiss and a promise to call at lunch, and she fell back asleep with a smile and the taste of maple syrup on her tongue.

* * *

"We appear to be missing someone important," Phil said pointedly once the car began to move and it became clear that Nick would not be joining them.

Maria looked up from the tablet on her lap, shrugging. "He said he had other things to take care of."

"I had other things to take care of," Steve muttered. He looked just as annoyed as Phil felt.

"In the scheme of things, reunions do not take precedence over politics." Her gaze landed on Phil, a slight, empathetic smile curving her lips. "How is Jemma?"

"She'll be fine after some rest." The concussion would heal, as would her sprained wrist and the abrasions and bruises covering her skin. For not the first time he reminded himself that she could have been returned in much worse condition, or not returned at all.

"Bucky is still running his mouth over everything she did to get out," Steve said. "He's very upset, and very impressed."

"Can't decide which emotion takes precedence, huh?" Maria replied.

"No, so he just paces and rants." Steve paused, considering that. "Sort of like the time he found out I was jumping out of planes without parachutes."

"Imagine that." Maria pursed her lips, repressing a far too amused smile. "And you, Phil? Any emotions you would like to express?"

"I'm very proud of my wife," he said calmly. "Now tell me the agenda for the day, Maria. I want to wrap up my part in this as soon as possible."

"I think I have an idea what that translates to." She pulled up a document on her tablet, nodding. "One question."

"Yes?"

"Did she really electrocute someone in the nuts?"

Phil had managed to hide his wince earlier, but could not do so a second time. "Yes."

"I'll be inviting her to the next girl's night with Nat and Pepper, then." She made herself a note, smiling. "She'll fit in just fine."

* * *

"Hey, sleepyhead."

Jemma blinked up at the ceiling, frowning at the spill of sunlight through the now-open curtains. "Nat."

"Get up. I brought you some clothes."

Natasha sat on the bed and dumped the contents of a shopping bag onto the comforter. "The nice thing about hotels like this is that you can ask them to get you anything and they won't even blink," she explained casually, hooking her finger through a lacy bra-strap and lifting it. "I charged it to Nick's cards. I'm sure he'll be pleased to know that you are wearing the very best in Agent Provocateur."

Jemma sat up, eyes wide at the spill of lingerie amidst jeans and blouses. "That's at least two thousand dollars worth of underwear," she protested.

"That kind of money does not go very far at that store." Natasha shrugged, a cat-in-the-cream look on her face. "I bought myself some, too. Consider the splurge your mission bonus."

"Does Fury often give mission bonuses in material goods?"

"He doesn't really give mission bonuses at all." Natasha lay back, apparently content to stay and chat. "I occasionally give them to myself, though."

"With his credit cards?"

"No, but I am particularly irritated with him at the moment."

Natasha did not explain why, and Jemma figured that her chances of forcing the reason from her were very low indeed. "If your plan is to make me leave the hotel, I'm not in the mood." She gestured at her forehead. "I look like I've been beaten up- which I have, mind you."

"Leaving is not part of today's agenda. A debrief is."

Jemma groaned and slumped back against the pillows. "I know you're right, but-"

"But get dressed and get it over with."

With a sigh Jemma gathered clothing for the day. She was pleased to find that everything fit perfectly, though she had lost a few pounds during her time away. There was something positively sinful about the feel of good cotton and silk against her skin, and she wondered if that had been intentional- if perhaps Natasha bought the best not only because she could, but because of the psychological benefits. Her hair she simply pulled back into a low ponytail, resolving once again to get a haircut as soon as possible to deal with the multitude of split ends.

She was not entirely surprised to find that Fury was waiting for her at the table in the living room, though she doubted that he had informed Phil of this ahead of time. "Skipping a day of meetings at the capital? I must rate," Jemma said casually, settling across the table from him. "Seeing as every minute of every day was recorded, I'm assuming there are specific topics you would like for me to address as opposed to a full recounting."

"I have a list." He nodded toward the notebook in front of him. "I'm glad that you've returned safely, Agent Simmons."

"I imagine Phil would have been less than useful if I had been returned in a casket," she replied, her tone a tad sardonic.

"Yes, but I really am glad to see you." He met her gaze without a qualm. "You've been a true asset during one of the most difficult times of SHIELD's existence, and I doubt we would have made it so far without you."

She hadn't been expecting that. "I'm pleased to hear it," she said finally.

"I hope you'll stay with the agency once we finish here."

That was a possibility, she supposed- leaving and finding work at some lab. Hell, Stark would hire her in an instant. "I have no plans to leave," she said after a moment of thought, and gave him a small smile. "I'm looking forward to taking up my new post as head of the science academy. With Fitz, of course."

"You are, are you?" he replied dryly. "Thank you for informing me of your new career move. Perhaps you would like to tell me what Phil will be doing for the next few decades."

"Well, someone will have to act as headmaster for the operative academy."

"I suppose that is true."

"I could make a few suggestions about communications, as well."

He lifted a hand at that. "Please, Agent Simmons, allow me to elect _one_ headmaster or headmistress of my own free will."

They exchanged a long look. "I didn't expect it to be so easy," she admitted.

"I'm through underestimating you, Simmons. Just try to keep the explosions to a minimum; our operating budget will not be back to normal for quite a while and I can't afford to be doing repairs every other week."

Her smile grew, and for the first time that she could recall she beamed at him, genuine and bright. "I would like an aquarium, though."

"I said no the first time and I'm saying no again." He settled back into his chair, looking grumpy and quite tired. "Ask me again in a decade, if I'm still alive and sane."

"I'll make a note on my calendar."

"Be sure you do. Now," he continued, flipping to his list, "to business. We need to know what happened to Calvin Zabo."

She sobered instantly. "I never saw him. I never heard anyone speak of him. He might as well have disappeared."

"I was afraid you were going to say that." He sighed, making a note in the margins. "The board members?"

"Weaver and Raina, for certain. Bobbi Morse made a passing reference to an Isabelle Hartley being on base for a board meeting as well, though I never met her."

He frowned. "I'll have to call Hand. Anyone else?"

"Smythe from the Sandbox, and Henderson from the academy. Those were the only names mentioned in my presence."

"I talked to Henderson just yesterday." He scrawled another note. "Do you want some water? I think we're going to be here for a while."

* * *

Skye's call came in during one of the few breaks between meetings, and in the mood for anything other than politics Phil opted to answer.

"Hey, AC," she said cheerfully. "I tried to call Jemma, but her social secretary told me she was very busy being interrogated by Fury." She paused. "And when I say social secretary, I mean Natasha."

He rolled his eyes. So that had been Nick's 'other thing to take care of'. At least Natasha was there to supervise. "How's New York?"

"Excellent, especially now that I've received this lovely hard drive which appears to have dried blood around the edges. Know anything about that?"

"I know that Jemma currently has scrapes in roughly the shape of the average hard drive on her lower back."

"I had a feeling. Anyway, the damage is largely superficial. The files themselves are fine, but they are encrypted- no surprise there. I'm hoping to have them open soonish."

"Can you be any more specific than that?"

"This is a delicate art, AC," she informed him seriously. "I might be lounging in my pajamas on a very cushy couch while I work, but I assure you that it is necessary to the process."

Maria caught his eye, tipping her head toward the door. "I believe you, Skye. Keep at it, and make sure you eat something other than sugar."

"I think I have doritos somewhere around here…"

"Perhaps some vegetables that aren't in chip form."

"Spoilsport."

* * *

After the second hour of questions Jemma had moved to the couch with her own set of notes. Natasha joined them eventually- Jemma sensed that she had given them that first half-hour as a chance to clear the air- and slowly but surely the other operatives in their party trickled into the room to join the conversation.

Bucky was still frowning in her general direction, but he had settled onto the other end of the couch and had spent the past hour poking a pencil eraser at her feet at random intervals, which she supposed was sort of like a kind of forgiveness. He would never let her forget any of this, but after watching him gripe at Steve about taking unnecessary risks she had come to accept it as his version of love.

"I would like to get into a lab, soon," she said in a lull between conversations, tapping her pen on her notes. "I have some ideas about increasing the efficacy of my antiserum."

"Tony will let you take your pick," Natasha predicted, grabbing the cell Clint held. She had her legs draped over his, her bare feet pressed against the arm of the loveseat. "He's been trying to lure all of us to New York."

"He's already managed to snag Skye, Audrey, Kara and Bruce." Clint flashed Jemma a grin. "He's a collector."

"Will he let us leave later?" Jemma replied, only half-joking.

"I'll bust you out if he gets tricky, doll." Bucky poked her feet with the eraser end of the pencil again. "If you don't take him out first, that is."

"What do you think, Nat?" Jemma asked, absentmindedly sketching an abstract rose in the margins of her notes. "Could I take him?"

"Absolutely." Natasha narrowed her eyes, obviously considering the scenario. "I suggest becoming friends with Jarvis."

"The computer program?"

"Jarvis is scarily sentient." Clint mock-shuddered. "Be glad he isn't world-domination-minded."

"Yet," Fury said dryly. "And before you ask, Simmons, I will release Phil from his obligations here when you decide to leave. I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night to find you holding a taser."

Bucky raised a brow. "What about Steve?"

"I'm tempted to pack him in a box and ship him off priority mail," Fury growled. "Do you know how many times he nearly derailed negotiations?"

"Let me guess," Bucky replied, looking faintly amused. "He spent every moment not explicitly devoted to SHIELD to plug for better healthcare and increased funding for libraries."

"Close enough."

"He's planning on going into politics, you know," Bucky said with sly menace, and they all took a moment to appreciate the look of frustrated dread on Fury's face.

"Well," he said finally, with the air of a man who desperately wanted a drink, "he is over thirty-five."


	15. our taps reversed

Jemma did not hesitate to pull her husband into the privacy of their room the second he returned. He smiled slightly at her eagerness, but the way his hand curved against her waist told her that he didn't have any complaints.

"He didn't do one of those old-school interrogations with a bright light and a metal chair, did he?" he asked as she pressed him down into one of the overstuffed chairs. "You both look like you're in one piece, so it must have been fairly civil," he continued, pulling her onto his lap.

"We understand each other very well, now," she replied, running a hand over his hair. "He's going to let me steal you away to New York and everything."

"He's agreed to your academy plan?"

"He wouldn't let me select the communications headmaster or mistress," she said, undoing his tie. "But I've decided to allow it."

He had snuck his hands under her blouse, but was keeping them circumspectly at her waist. The way his thumbs were skimming along her ribs was somewhat less than circumspect, though, and she cursed her unfortunate injury. "That is very kind of you, Jem." He leaned in and brushed his lips against the skin under one ear, and the sensation made her shiver. "I'm sure he's appropriately grateful that you didn't ask for his job."

"Well, I turned him down the last time he offered it." She smiled slyly, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt. "And while I'm sure that I could maintain a better work-life balance as a director than you did-"

"Fair," he admitted.

"-I simply don't want that particular job." She slipped a few fingers through the new gap, brushing lightly against the ridge of his scar. "Are you content to run off to New York with me? If you prefer, we could always tell Fury to sod off and disappear into the hinterlands."

"Running herd on a bunch of operatives-in-training sounds just about right, though I'm not sure I should really be headmaster." He was still brushing his thumbs back and forth, back and forth. "Maybe second-in-command, or just an instructor. I don't think I'm…"

He paused, and finally shrugged. "I have different priorities for my time, now," he said finally. "I'd rather be that eccentric professor who teaches them how to pick locks, or something, and spend the rest of my time with my family."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Well, then." She smiled, laying her head against his shoulder. "Once my concussion heals, we can start work on that family."

"Even if we can't," he began carefully, "my point still stands."

"I know." She brushed her fingers again against his scar. "Even as we are now, you're my family. That won't change."

They rested quietly for a few minutes, one of his hands moving to her hair. "I still want a cat," she said eventually. "May we have a cat?"

"I'm pro-cat."

"And now we get to decorate an apartment together."

He moved the hand that had been in her hair, tipping her chin up gently with one finger. "You sound excited," he said, smiling.

"Our first long-term home," she pointed out. "Not a plane, nor a secret base. We can pick out paint colors and hang art."

"A very good point."

"You can make me pancakes on rainy mornings, and maybe we'll even have a fireplace." She leaned in, catching him in a kiss. "We could be almost normal."

"Except for living just down the hall from some of the most famous superheroes on the planet," he pointed out, running his fingertips lightly along the curve one ear. He ended with a tap against her earring- not the bugged pair, which Jemma had handed over to Natasha the night before- sending the dangling silver molecule swinging. "Not very normal."

"Normal enough." She shut her eyes against the dull throb of her headache, nestling against him. "It will be so nice to just stay in one place for a while," she continued wistfully. "To have a routine."

"I'm willing to have a routine with you." She felt his lips brush against her hairline, his arms settle more securely around her. "Does your head hurt?"

"Hmm-mm."

"We don't have to go straight to New York, you know," he said in a coaxing tone, sifting her hair through his fingers. "We could take a week… or three."

She opened her eyes, giving him a good once-over. There were shadows under his own eyes, and though he was currently at ease, the strain he had been under was easy enough for her to read. "That sounds lovely. You and me, alone in some cabin somewhere…"

"I'll call Pepper; see if she'll lend us that house again."

She sighed in satisfaction, closing her eyes again. "As long as Steve knows that he isn't welcome."

"I think he got that message the first time around," Phil replied, his amusement audible. "I doubt anyone would interrupt us, not after your display of proficiency with a taser."

"I might have to start carrying one with me on a regular basis."

"I'll buy you one, as a present. Top of the line."

"What a sweet husband I have." She curled into him, feeling even happier at that moment than she had that morning, when she had finally gotten the kiss she had been waiting for. "I know you're hungry, but will you sit with me? Just for a few minutes."

"Happily." She felt his hand move from her hair, moving to settle lightly against the side of her face. "Thank you for saving me from more politics."

"You are welcome." She turned her face slightly to kiss the base of his thumb, keeping her eyes closed. "I'm just very selfish, Phil. I want time with you too badly to be polite about it for any longer."

"Probably one of the best compliments anyone has ever given me," he told her gently, and she kissed his hand again. She had missed those hands, and the rest of him as well.

* * *

Phil left politics behind with little worry, content to allow Maria (an excellent diplomat), Fury, and Steve to tie up any loose ends. "I have more important things to attend to," he told Natasha, who had merely smirked in reply.

The house was as charming as he had remembered, and while the first few days were slow and dreamy they were exactly what he had hoped for. Good meals, long soaks in a tub big enough for four, and the chance to wrap himself around his wife as she napped, listening to her slow breathing and brushing his fingertips against the still-black writing on her skin. Alive and healing, with his thanks to whatever deity might be watching.

They had been nearly a week at the house when she set up a Scrabble board one evening, giving him a mischievous smile as she arranged the various accessories. "I considered poker," she said in a casual tone, shaking the bag of tiles, "but I don't actually know how to play, which would weigh strip poker rather heavily in your favor."

"Are you suggesting a game of strip scrabble?" he asked, intrigued but justifiably nervous. He still remembered her victory with- what had it been? Aglet? Inlet? Something very British.

"Yes, dear, but I'm giving you the advantage." She pulled her dress over her head, leaving her clad only in a pair of ballet flats and a lingerie set that was almost identical to what she had worn on their wedding night. "You have far more pieces to lose than me. Perfectly fair."

Her smile was sweet. He had to take a moment to compose himself. It had been months since they had done more than literally sleep in the same bed- he had no desire to addle that genius brain with undue exertion, no matter how tempting he found her- and there she was, the image of one of his more erotic dreams from his time alone. "I call foul," he said finally, his mouth dry. "This," he said, waving a hand in her direction in a gesture he hoped she understood, "is an attempt to drive your opponent out of his wits."

The look on her face told him that she understood exactly the kind of effect she had on him, and that she had been aiming for such a result. "What?" she asked, her tone innocent, and she raised a hand in an artless gesture, brushing her fingertips against the broad strokes of _jazz_. "I have no idea what you mean, Phil. Are we playing or not?"

They were playing, that was for sure, just not the game he had been anticipating. "I suppose we are," he said after a moment, taking a seat at the table. "Fairness aside."

She appeared to consider this seriously, and then stepped neatly out of her shoes. "You are right," she said practically, settling into the chair across from him. Seconds later there was a slight pressure on his lap, and he looked down to see her dainty, perfect feet lying against his thighs. She had painted her toenails.

"You," he said after some thought, "are a tease."

"I plan on delivering, though," she replied cheerfully, wriggling her toes against a part of his anatomy that currently disliked being constrained. "Win or lose, we both win."

She paused, perhaps reading his worry. "You trust me, don't you? Sex is safe. I know you won't let me accidentally bump my head against the headboard, or anything dangerous."

"So all the more vigorous positions have to wait for a while?" he asked rhetorically, still watching her toes. He reached down and pressed a hand against her feet, brushing his fingers over the arch of one foot. He had to draw on his training, but concentrating on the hardest of his academy lessons gave him the strength to look into her eyes and smile with calm, almost devious intent. "I can be gentle."

"I'm so glad to hear that." She folded her hands on the table with a very professional kind of air. "One article of clothing every time your opponent makes a triple word score or a bonus?"

"I'll be naked within twenty minutes, but I'll allow it."

She surveyed the board some ten minutes later, smirking. "You seem a bit fixated on a certain topic," she said, brushing her toes against the bare skin of his legs. Thanks to her not-unexpectedly brilliant plays he was down to just his shirt and boxers. She, of course, still wore exactly what she had started the game with, but she did look amused by his plays. "'Smut', 'cock', 'tits'... are you hinting at something?"

"Can't imagine what," he replied, hiding his smile as he made a play that was almost too good to be true. All of his tiles laid neatly before of her own plays: _orgasmic_, intersecting with _copious_. "Pay up, sweetheart."

"No one's luck is that good," she protested through laughter. "Phil, are you cheating?"

"No one said anything about not cheating."

"I think that was implied."

"Says the woman who stripped off most of her clothing to better distract her opponent."

She laughed again, a faint blush rising on her cheeks as she pulled off her bra. She dangled it over the table, waiting for him to claim it. "I think I underestimated you, Phil. You might win this game after all… even if you are cheating."

"I haven't rigged my draws, Jem. I just have a very dirty mind." He took his prize with a nod of his head, letting his gaze linger on her bare breasts. Lovely. "I've also had a lot of time to consider what I wanted to do with you, once I finally got you back."

She laid out _petrol_ with a bright smile. "Had trouble sleeping, did you?"

"A lot of trouble."

He didn't throw the game, not exactly; his luck simply went downhill from there, and within fifteen minutes she had him naked in the middle of the living room. "You win," he said briskly, standing and extending a hand to her.

"We aren't going to finish the game?" she asked teasingly, placing her hand in his. "I have a brilliant word to play."

"New game, new rules." He tugged her after him down the hall, looking back to watch her deliberately swaying hips. "I would toss you over my shoulder, but given the circumstances…"

"Very thoughtful of you."

As they entered the bedroom she dropped his hand and darted ahead, landing on the mattress with a slight bounce, her hair swirling around her shoulders. "Come kiss your wife, Phil."

He was tempted to run toward the bed- his eagerness was certainly apparent- but he kept a measured stride. He stopped at the edge, taking in every inch of Jemma's lovely self. "I feel that I should make it clear that I missed more than just sex," he said, placing his hands on the mattress. He had intended to keep his touch light, not wanting to overwhelm her, but on instinct his fingers dug into the give of the soft mattress. "I missed _you_, Jemma. Living without you was hell."

Her sultry expression softened into something vulnerable and gentle. "Every night, I wanted your arms around me," she said quietly. "You make me feel so loved, Phil. Safe and cherished… and desired." She held out her arms, and he noticed anew that slight downturn to her mouth that had not been present before her time undercover. Phil remembered his first undercover mission, and the lines he had found between his brows in the aftermath. They barely talked about those particular physical repercussions in the operatives' academy; he doubted that the science academy had even touched on the topic.

"All of those things," he assured her, settling onto the bed and drawing her into his arms. This was definitely a moment for emotion, and not seduction. "You are my sweetheart." He murmured the words, brushing his lips against the corner of her down-turned mouth. "I barely stayed sane without you."

He could feel the way she relaxed against him, bit by bit. "It would have been awkward," she said eventually. "It was hard enough using the loo while wearing those earrings; if you have been with me the others would have learned far too much about our sex life."

He gave her earrings a suspicious look. "Jem-"

"Bug-free," she assured him. "But I'll take them out and put them elsewhere, if that would help."

"I trust you." He brushed a kiss against her earlobe, catching the scent of her rose-laden shampoo. "I love you, Jemma."

He pulled back in time to catch her smile, bright and without reserve. "And I love you."

She leaned back slowly, pulling him with her until she lay against the mattress and he hovered above her. She moved his hands to her hips, smiling encouragingly as he slipped his fingers beneath the silk of her underwear. "You promise to be gentle?" she asked in murmur as he divested her of the lacy confection, allowing it to flutter to the floor as he was once more made aware of his good fortune. "Not that I have any opposition to rough, on a later date," she added with a wicked grin.

"I keep my promises."

Their game had been foreplay enough, at least for him, but he was happy to take his time with her, exchanging caresses and listening to her laugh as he tickled a particularly sensitive spot. No need to rush, not when this easy give-and-take was so enjoyable.

When he finally slid into her it was her soft sigh of contentment that thrilled him more than anything. She twined arms and legs around him, keeping him close as they rocked together, her lips sweet against his.

"You're perfect," he told her afterward, feeling sleep stealing upon him. "Absolutely perfect, Jemma."

She looked half-asleep herself, but she smiled and lifted a hand to stroke his hair. "I could say much the same about you."

"No headache?"

"Pain free."

She stretched languidly, draping one arm over his chest. "Are we going to cuddle?"

"I'm almost insulted that you feel the need to ask," he replied teasingly, and pulled her close. "Go to sleep, sweetheart. No bad dreams tonight."

And as far as he knew, there weren't.

* * *

As far as Jemma was concerned, there were few things better than a week spent in absurdly hedonistic pleasure with her husband, who seemed intent on making up for several months of celibacy in that small scope of time (though he was clearly aiming for quality as opposed to quantity, and was doing a damned good job of it). When he wasn't making her grasp on the English language fuzzy he was trying to feed her, and Jemma happily gave herself over to being cosseted. She deserved it, after all.

"We should have taken a month," she said a bit glumly as she finished packing her things. "Possibly two."

"I think you would have started missing your lab if we had stayed any longer." He neatly tucked the last of his clothing into his own suitcase. "You're already looking a bit fidgety."

"True." She was actually itching to get back to work, though had managed to stave off the worst of it by puzzling out some snags in her current research via copious notes. Her first priority, on their return to the real world, would be to adapt her earlier antiserum with her most recent work in mind.

She shouldn't have taken a vacation at all, she realized with a clutch of guilt. They would have been told if Gonzales had actually used the virus, wouldn't they? Surely they would have been told… though Jemma had been so firm about only being interrupted by the end of the world that their friends might have kept mum.

"You look worried," he said, circling the bed to stand beside her. "And guilty."

"Rather irresponsible of me to run off like this, isn't it? Especially considering the kind of work I was doing undercover."

"Don't take the weight of the world on your shoulders," he advised, wrapping her in a hug. "Be kind to yourself."

"Hypocrite," she said against the knit of his sweater.

"Oh, I know. I've never taken that advice in my life."

"As long as you recognize it." She paused, her mouth dry. "We would know, wouldn't we? If something happened."

"The men might be too terrified of you to call, but Natasha would. I made her promise before we left."

"No news is good news, then?"

"I think so."

Jemma relaxed against him for a moment more, tentatively at peace. She could fix this. She could fix this.

* * *

Tony met them at the airfield sans Pepper or any hangers-on other than Happy, which struck Phil as somewhat worrying. "Fury brought me up to speed about your plans," Tony said in lieu of a greeting, taking one of their suitcases at random and heading toward the waiting car. "As amusing as having a tower full of SHIELD agents in training would be, I have to burst your bubble."

Phil wasn't particularly surprised by that announcement, though he saw the slight disappointment on Jemma's face. "Having the academies in the middle of Manhattan, even temporarily, does have its problems," she admitted practically. "I suppose we'll have to discuss the budget with Fury- maybe SHIELD has a property outside the city we could use."

"No need." Tony slid into the front seat as they settled into the back. "I have a place that might suit your needs. The others have been interested in leaving downtown anyway; even my science bro has been speaking wistfully of living near actual trees." He sighed a tad dramatically. "Avengers' headquarters slash training ground. Sound good?"

"Certainly safer for any nearby civilians," Phil said dryly. "The tower doesn't offer the same kind of buffer as a few acres of land would."

"Exactly. So," Tony continued, turning in his seat to fix Jemma with an interested look. "Why exactly does your name inspire new terror in the eyes of America's greatest icon?"

"Just Steve?" Jemma asked. "I'm disappointed."

"Not just Steve, though Barnes really just rolls his eyes and looks put upon when your name comes up."

"He's very protective," Jemma said demurely.

"Or something. So, what happened?"

"I used a taser to electrocute a man in the balls."

He stared at her for a moment, not even paying attention to the slight jerk of the car as Happy reacted to her words. "Have you met Lewis yet?" he asked finally. "I think the two of you will get along just fine."

Phil had no doubt that they would.

The property was roughly an hour from the city, surrounded by rolling farmland and enough woodland to offer some interesting training opportunities.

"Former factory?" Phil asked as they stood outside the large building. Good bones, as best he could tell, but tired and faded.

"Railroad ties. Went out of business about two decades ago and has been gathering dust ever since."

They followed Tony inside, ducking trailing spiderwebs and leaving footprints in the dust. "They gutted the place when they left," he continued, gesturing toward the empty floor space and the catwalks above. "That spares us a bit of work. Foundation is still strong, and my architects have been busily drawing up plans for labs and classrooms. We'll renovate this building first, and then look toward expanding."

Jemma was turning slowly to examine the space, a smile on her face. "And this is just one room, isn't it? It looks like it continues farther back."

"Yeah- this was the main production floor, but behind this there's a lot of old storage rooms, offices, and a warehouse. Steve suggested turning the warehouse into an indoor training facility, and the rest into student housing. Fury approved of the plans, but he wants your input before he signs off on them."

"What do you think?" she asked Phil, reaching out to take his hand. "I know traditionally the academies have been separate, but I think it might be time to try a more integrated approach."

"I agree. There have definitely been times when we all could have used skills from outside our chosen fields of study… and," he added thoughtfully, "less competition between schools would do us all good."

"I think you're right." She turned back to Tony, her expression excited. "Show us the rest."

More cavernous spaces as well as a warren of offices and storage rooms. There would be walls to knock out there, and Tony pointed out the spot where he had plans to build an expansion to house the cafeteria and laundry facilities.

"What about faculty housing?" Phil asked as they headed back outside. "I could see a few members living with the students, to keep hijinks to a minimum, but not everyone."

"The answer to that is right over here."

Beyond a stand of trees waited a row of bungalows surrounded by a buzz of workmen and machinery. "The workers used to live here," Tony explained. "Then they were used for storage. Rehabbing these has been a labor of love, or at least that's what Pepper says. This one is almost done; come on in."

"You must have been certain that we would say yes," Phil said with a small smile, resting a hand lightly on Jemma's lower back as she preceded him through the door. Her small intake of breath at the sight of hardwood floors and a fireplace signaled her excitement.

"If you say no, I could rent these houses out for a mint," Tony replied with a shrug. "Or turn it all into some kind of modern spa. You saw the brickwork in the other building- we'd get tourists in droves."

Jemma was trailing her fingertips over the built-in bookshelves with an expression of delight. Phil walked into the kitchen, nodding slightly as he examined the layout and the breakfast nook. Cozy, but not uncomfortably small. The right size for a potentially growing family with an obscene number of books.

He found Jemma exploring the master bedroom, which held its own fireplace and wide windows. "What do you think?" he asked, already knowing exactly how she felt. "We wouldn't have the excitement of the city, but country living has its charms."

"Who needs traffic when you have the excitement that a bunch of students can cause?" she asked rhetorically, throwing her arms around him. "I want it, Phil."

He could hardly refuse her, not when she looked at him like that. "Are there other bedrooms?"

"Two. And a screened-in porch."

"Then I suppose our future holds tests to grade on snowy days in front of a fireplace." He accepted the excited kiss she offered, and then pulled back with a grin. "And a cat."

She left the room at a fast clip. "We'll take it," he heard her tell Tony breathlessly. "All of it."

"Thank God. Pepper would have killed me if she didn't get her vacation house."

Phil entered the room in time to see Tony's glum look. "The countryside," the other man said with a sigh. "She won't even let me hook Jarvis into the system."

"Simpler living isn't a bad thing," Jemma said with a smirk. "And you'll have young minds to corrupt when you visit. Cheer up."

"Good point. The houses will be done by the end of the month, and the contractor thinks six months to finish the main building. Until then, I've got a lab with your name on it, Mrs. Agent."

Jemma nodded, a look of determination on her face. "That gives us time to hire faculty, to revamp the existing programs… we could open in a year, perhaps, just in time for the beginning of fall semester."

"And it gives me time to find students." He smiled at Jemma's surprise. "I used to recruit for the academies. It was fun, and that will give me a project while you focus on academics."

"Excuse me," Tony said as Phil exchanged a long look with Jemma, "the level of loving adoration in this room has become uncomfortable. I'll be waiting outside."

Phil tugged Jemma into an embrace after Tony left, leaning down to brush a soft kiss over her mouth. "We'll be sleeping in that bedroom before we know it," he told her quietly, giving her another kiss. "A year is nothing."

"Just be sure to keep a few days after the move-in open so that we can christen the house properly," she replied with a sly smile. "We'll need to invest in curtains."

"I love the way you think."

* * *

Jemma's ebullience over the future took a dip when they arrived at the tower and were met by a less-than-cheerful Skye. "You look great," the other woman said warmly, giving them her best smile. "The stories I've been hearing about you are amazing."

"Possibly exaggerated," Jemma replied, giving her friend a concerned look. "What's wrong?"

"Ugh, it's just those files you brought back." Skye waved a hand quickly as Jemma's eyes widened. "Not all bad, Jem. We've taken out several of their hidey-holes; really whittled their forces down. It's…"

She paused, her lips curling in a scowl. "It's my father."

"Ahh."

Skye dropped heavily onto the large, overstuffed couch in Jemma and Phil's temporary apartment. "He brokered a deal with them to do something classified, and they sent him somewhere classified, and even using all of my best hacking skills I still have no idea where he is or what he's up to."

"We'll find him." Phil laid a hand on her shoulder, and Jemma could see that he was hiding his worry under a soothing smile. "The information you've found has been invaluable, Skye. Don't forget that."

"Listen to you, AC, being all comforting." Skye cracked a reluctant smile. "You're pretty good at that."

"I have my moments."

It wasn't until she left that his calm expression dissipated into something far more serious. "He's going to be a problem," he predicted, looking grim. "Maybe not today, or next month, or even next year, but eventually…"

"I know." She sat beside him on the sofa, taking his hands. "I know."

Skye's father, the Chitauri virus… but if she kept thinking along those lines, the bright future she had allowed herself to see would grow bleak.

He seemed to catch her train of thought. "But that is a problem for later," he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Knowing Nick, he'll have already set up a dedicated team to track him down, which means for the moment we only have one question to consider."

She gave him a quizzical look. "I can think of more than one."

"One that affects our near future," he corrected. "It's getting late, and we don't need to save the world this evening. We do, however, need to eat."

"That is a serious matter," she replied, relaxing slightly against him. "How do you feel about ordering in Chinese and watching a movie?"

"Perfect."

* * *

Time did pass quickly, as he had promised her. Phil threw himself into finding candidates for all three schools, recruiting the best and the brightest from sprawling metropolises and quiet country towns alike with the help of Skye and the new faculty. Some of the professors had taught at the academies before, and some were new hires entirely, but they had all passed a rigorous screening process, and Phil was as confident as he could be that no plants from other organizations were among the mix.

May accepted the role as headmistress of the operatives' academy, and at her recommendation an agent she had met during her time in administration was given the post as headmistress of communications. "Trust me," May had said with the barest of smiles, and that had been that.

The one glitch in Phil's happiness was how hard Jemma was driving herself, as she attempted to balance the immense amount of work needed for the academy with her research on the Chitauri antiserum. To Phil's relief there had been no reports of anyone contracting the virus, because he wasn't entirely sure that Jemma would ever forgive herself if it was used as a weapon before she had perfected the antidote (antiserum, he reminded himself. Totally different thing).

Thus he was grateful when, some five months after returning to New York City, Jemma burst into his office with a wide grin on her face. "I figured it out!" she said in a rush, ignoring Natasha's amused expression at the interruption. "The antiserum, I mean. All the tests are conclusive. I fixed it."

"I'll leave you to celebrate in peace, then," Natasha said dryly, gathering up her notes. "Remember to clean the desk when you're done."

"Oh, hush," Jemma shot back happily as Natasha left, but nonetheless seated herself in Phil's lap. "I fixed it," she said again, and began to undo his tie.

"I knew you would. And now maybe you'll get a full night's sleep, and maybe even sit down to dinner with me."

She looked a bit sheepish at that. "I've been ignoring you. I'm sorry."

"Not ignoring me completely, and I understand why." He kissed her before she could reply, waiting until he felt her lips begin to turn up before pulling back. "Do you feel better now, sweetheart?"

"Lighter. I'm not sure I'll ever be at peace with weaponizing that virus in the first place," she admitted, "even if it was necessary to keep up my cover. But this- this helps."

"Good." He kissed her again, already thinking with longing about a quiet night in. "Tonight- you, me, champagne?"

"Yes. And tomorrow-"

She stopped and smiled before continuing. "Perhaps tomorrow, we visit the local shelter? I can afford to take a day off, if you can."

"You have a deal."

Phil- and this did not surprise Jemma at all- turned out to be a cat magnet. The many photos on her phone of him with a lap full of cats were lasting proof of the fact.

"How are we supposed to choose?" he asked her with obvious concern, stroking a tabby even as a long-haired orange fluffball stood with one front paw planted on his shoulder, waiting for attention. "We can't take home the entire shelter."

She gave a regal white cat a scritch under the chin as two others walked around her, sniffing her jeans. "We could get two," she suggested. "They can keep each other company."

A gray sauntered out from a box, sprawling between them with a complete lack of dignity to reveal his spotted belly. He gave Jemma a long, upside-down look, and then yawned and stretched luxuriously.

"Looks like you," Phil noted with a smile. "In the mornings, when you don't want to get up."

She considered stroking the exposed belly, but the glint in the cat's eye told her that such a move would be dangerous. Instead she moved closer to her husband, eyeing the small black cat that was pressed against his hip. She was purring, and her long tail was curled delicately around her body. "I think she likes you."

"I like her," he admitted, stroking the cat. Only a few years old, Jemma thought, and friendly despite whatever accident had caused her to lose one of her front legs. "What do you think?"

The black cat hopped into Jemma's lap after smelling her fingertips, still purring heavily. "I say yes." She lifted her gaze to his with a daring smile. "Are we really getting two?"

"I'm not sure I could walk out of here without at least two."

"That one, then," she said, pointing toward the gray tom snoozing in the corner.

"He hasn't woken up once," Phil said, though it didn't seem to be a criticism.

"It's gut instinct, Phil. He deserves to sleep in front of a fireplace."

Phil carefully stood, easing aside the three cats who had been competing for space in his lap. He didn't bother brushing the fur off of his trousers, but simply moved across the room and knelt by the cat's side. At first touch the cat woke, yawning before uncurling to examine the man who had interrupted his nap.

After a long look the cat butted his head against Phil's hand, a purr not dissimilar to a rusty car engine emanating from his solid frame. "He's a polydactyl," Phil said, ruffling the cat's fur. "He's huge, Jem. He must be twenty pounds at least."

The black cat sprang from her lap and rushed them, tumbling over the tom with playful enthusiasm. The other cat didn't even blink in response. "Your gut instinct is right." Phil grinned at her. "I think we have our cats."

Cats, as it turned out, _loved_ Thor.

Thor, thankfully, loved cats.

"This small beast is a fierce warrior," he said approvingly, having managed to coax the black cat from beneath the sofa by trailing a ribbon past her nose. Despite having only one front paw, she was doing an admirable job of killing the helpless ribbon. "I like it. Does it have a name?"

"Hermia," Jemma replied as she gave the gray a thorough brushing.

"'Though she be but little, she is fierce'," Phil quoted, and gave Jemma a teasing look. "I have read Shakespeare."

"And this is Pavlov," Jemma said, patting the gray. "I know, Fitz, I know. Pavlov had dogs. I don't care."

Pavlov yawned, displaying a number of sharp teeth. Fitz shook his head. "When he smothers you in your sleep, I'll be saying I told you so."

Jemma cast Phil an amused look before gently attempting to unsnarl a matted patch on Pavlov's hindquarters. "We'll be fine, Fitz."

And they were, at least until Hermia pounced on Phil's back when they were in the middle of making love.

Though, as even Phil admitted, they probably should have shut the door first.

* * *

_AN: Thanks to my sister for helping me to brainstorm the names for the cats, and thanks to Selmak for being encouraging every time I hit a wall._


	16. a lock that we forgot the combination to

Pavlov circled his ankles as Phil flipped pancakes at the stove, meowing insistently despite the fact that his own breakfast was still waiting on a plate against the wall.

A _plate_, for goodness sake. Jemma was right; he was going soft over the cats.

"I realize the portion is small," he said patiently to the beast, resigning himself to the insanity. "We are moving this afternoon. You might have noticed the boxes in the living room."

Pavlov gave him a look of utter condescension.

"Jemma will be upset if you throw up on the way there."

The cats probably would, anyway, or worse. Maybe he could bribe Skye to drive them?

Jemma herself had come into the room to hear the last part, and she pressed herself against his back, sliding her arms around his waist. "Now I'm not the only one who talks to the cats," she said, sounding almost pleased, and he felt her press a kiss between his shoulder blades. "I knew you would give in eventually."

He scooped the pancake from the hot griddle, moving it to the safety of a nearby plate before turning in her embrace. He had something pithy on the tip of his tongue, but he reconsidered it when he saw the redness of her eyes. "Sweetheart?"

She gave him a weak smile. "Like clockwork."

"Oh, Jem." He pulled her close, resting his chin on the top of her head as she snuffled quietly into his collar. "Please don't fret. Eight months… a lot of people try for longer than that before conceiving."

"I know." She sighed, her tears wetting his skin. "I know. I'm just impatient. And maybe…"

She paused, before continuing in a cracked, almost inaudible voice. "It might be me? Natural, or maybe the virus."

"It could very well be me," he said firmly. "You know the statistics about weakened sperm count at my age- and for all we know, the GH325 made me infertile." He stroked her hair for a moment, considering for the millionth time their options. "I'll get tested," he said finally. "And if I'm the problem, we could always use an anonymous donor."

She made a quiet, wheezing sort of sound. "I want _your_ baby."

"Any baby you have would be ours. If we adopt, any child we adopt would be ours."

"I know." She hiccuped, obviously more than a little overwrought. "I'm just hormonal."

That was not a safe matter for him to make any kind of agreement on. "It probably is me, sweetheart," he murmured against her hair, the idea more troubling than he would admit aloud. "Don't blame yourself. We'll make it work somehow."

He pulled away only when it became clear that the burner under the griddle absolutely had to be turned down. He ignored the spattered bits of butter now adorning one sleeve.

She ate her pancakes quietly, Pavlov draped over her lap as she did so. Phil tried to keep his expression nonchalant, but it was difficult. He worried about her- about _them_\- as each month slipped past without a positive pregnancy test. Not because he feared she would leave him, because stalwart Jemma would never do such a thing, but because…

Well.

Would sex become a chore? It was almost hard for him to conceive of such a notion, but a part of him worried that one day Jemma would come to bed with the expression of someone girding themselves for battle. Could he refuse her, at such a time? Plead the time-honored excuse of a headache? Sex was absolutely essential for procreation, yes, but Phil wasn't at all comfortable with the idea of it being entirely for procreation. If Jemma wasn't having an excellent time, he'd rather go without.

It struck him that the last time sex had been this complicated and fraught with meaning was when he had been a virgin. It was an odd realization.

"Jem?"

She looked up from her plate, her expression startled. "Yes?"

Phil leaned against the island across from her, and reached out to take one hand. "What are your feelings on jazz, sweetheart?"

A hint of humor surfaced, darting across her face. "I'm becoming surprisingly fond of it."

"My patient wife."

It was time to shake things up a bit, he decided. New home, new work, a new start. When was the last time he had seduced his wife? Seduction that was longer than a few hours, anyway: there had been a number of candlelit dinners that had ended happily on both sides. They had two weeks before the students arrived, after all. Phil had time to play a long kind of game.

He began by pressing a kiss to her palm, watching as her eyes dilated slightly at the flick of his tongue against her skin. "Finish your breakfast." He kissed the tips of her fingers next, hiding his smile as her breath caught. "We have a lot of work to do."

* * *

The one blessing was they didn't have to move furniture. "And professionals are moving the boxes," she muttered to herself, pushing back a sweat-dampened lock of hair. They just had the cats to contend with (who were very unhappy, and not afraid to vocally express their displeasure from the carriers), and the items that were either too personal or too confidential to leave in the hands of others.

She finished buckling the last carrier into the backseat of the SUV, wincing as Pavlov gave a particularly mournful cry. "I feel like we're actively torturing them," she admitted when Phil appeared, the last suitcases in his hands. "I'm almost afraid they won't forgive us."

"They'll sulk for a while, but they'll be fine soon enough." He stowed the luggage away before slipping his arms around her. "They'll appreciate the move once they discover the porch. And the hearth rug in front of the fireplace."

Hermia hissed in a way that suggested death and dismemberment. "If we live that long," she said gloomily. "They might smother us in our sleep, like Fitz suggested."

"Nah. They depend on us for food, after all."

Phil had always been a very tactile husband, but Jemma couldn't help but feel that he was being more demonstrative than usual, even if all he was doing was rubbing her back. Whatever the difference, she liked it. "Are you ready to face the drive?"

He brushed a kiss against her lips, and then pulled away with a smile. "Yes."

* * *

Jemma sighed with relief once the cats were safely shut into their temporary quarters: the laundry room, equipped with a large litter box and all the food and water they might wish.

"I actually thought we might die at one point," she admitted in a serious tone to Phil, who smirked as he approached with a box of kitchen gear in his hands.

"I'd suggest using irritated cats as a means of persuasion in interrogations, but I think it would be cruel to the cats." He glanced at the shut door, lingering by her side. "We'll have to mop the floor."

"I know."

"Maybe even dispose of the carriers for good."

"_I know._"

She felt vaguely ill. Who knew that cats could output so much… effluvia?

"Thank goodness we borrowed that car from Stark."

She found herself giggling in near hysteria as he continued past her. A blessing, indeed.

The hassle of moving aside, she loved her new home. The hardwood floors, the bookshelves, the promise of how incredibly fun it would be to seduce Phil against the multitude of these new surfaces… Jemma sighed, regretting slightly the timing of her menses with the move. And not regretting it, in a way, because she was finding that her inability to conceive was more of a heartbreak than she could have imagined.

Not unusual, she reminded herself. Especially considering the fact that she had been on birth control less than a year ago. And her encounter with alien virology, and the stress…

And it had only been eight months. Eight months of creative, passionate sex, yes, but eight months.

The very emotional portion of her brain wasn't quite buying the myriad of excuses. It wanted a baby to cuddle, and didn't particularly care about the logic involved. Or the fact that having a child during the first year of the new academies was probably a terrible idea.

She straightened, taking in a deep breath as she shook off her worries. She had things to do.

The furniture had been delivered ahead of time, and paid for by them despite Tony's protests. It certainly would have been cheaper to forward him the bill, but Jemma and Phil had both agreed that they would be paying to outfit their new home. They intended to spend years there, after all, and Jemma for one was eager to put her mark on the place. Some pieces were new- the couch, the comfortable chairs- and others were new only to them. They had spent several weekends sleeping in B&amp;Bs and searching the aisles of small-town antique shops for useful pieces. Another weekend had been spent arranging the furniture in the house and refinishing the top of a sturdy kitchen table.

Jemma grinned to herself as she made up their bed with new sheets, remembering how they had camped out in the living room on an air mattress. That had been a fun weekend.

Phil came and found her hours later, when the bookshelves were half-filled and nearly a dozen more boxes awaited her attention. "Come have dinner," he said, offering her a hand up. She took it, grunting slightly when her knees protested her time spent on the floor. "It's nearly nine in the evening; we both need to stop for night."

"The house still looks like a disaster," she said, though not in protest. "How did we end up with so many books?"

"My wife is a genius, and I like mystery novels," he answered easily, rubbing his thumb against her temple and pulling his hand back to show the smear of dust. "You have cobwebs in your hair."

"I swept out the attic."

She shrugged at his questioning look. "I wanted to see it. And it's completely empty, but filled with dust… or it was."

"Very brave of you. Meet up with any of Natasha's kin?" he asked, guiding her gently toward the kitchen. Hermia- now clean and in a much better mood- streaked past them with Pavlov chasing after her.

"Nothing poisonous, thankfully."

She stopped, blinking in surprise at the kitchen. It wasn't entirely unpacked, but very close, and the surfaces had been given a good scrubbing. A bottle of wine sat open on the counter, and something that smelled delicious was simmering on the stove. "You have performed a miracle," she said after a moment, feeling her shoulders relax even as her stomach, reminded of the existence of food, rumbled. "Let me wash off this dust, and then I will be all yours."

With damp strands of hair curling around her face, she sat down at the table five minutes later, glancing toward the dark windows. "We should hang curtains in here. Or put up blinds."

"On the list." He placed a bowl of hearty soup in front of her, nudging the basket of bread closer. "I did hang the curtains in the bedroom. I'm sure the cats will shred them before we know it."

She didn't answer, too busy spreading butter on her bread and taking a first bite. Heaven. Had he baked the bread? She didn't remember bringing any. "When did you find time to do this?" she asked finally, after taking a bite of the soup. It had not come from a can, of that she was certain.

"I planned ahead of time." He looked quite pleased with himself, and she couldn't blame him for that. "It's amazing what you can do with a pressure cooker and some sourdough starter."

It was amazing what he could do, period. She took a sip of the rich red wine and gave a sigh of satisfaction. "You are a miracle worker, Phil."

"First night in our new home. Ordering pizza was out of the question, even if a local pizzeria had security clearance for the campus." He buttered a slice of bread for himself, smiling. "I scrubbed the tub upstairs, too, in case you wanted a bath."

"It's settled. You've won husband of the year; apply for your prize in four days or so."

"Just wait until you taste dessert."

Dessert was cake from her favorite bakery, which he had somehow managed to sneak past her during the tumult of moving. "You are a godsend," she informed him, circling the table to sit on his lap with her dessert plate in hand. "I needed cake like I needed air."

She didn't find that _too_ much of an exaggeration. The taste of chocolate and cream on her tongue was practically spilling new life into her veins.

"I'm considering how to duplicate the recipe." He reached out and dragged a finger through the ganache on his plate, bringing it to his lips. "Be my guinea pig?"

"Any day." She placed her plate on the table, shifting slightly in his lap to face him. "I do love scientific endeavor," she said before kissing him, licking a trace of ganache from his lips. "Perhaps you could just make a pot of this and let me lick it off your chest."

"That sounds unsanitary," he replied in a low voice, his lips still within an inch of hers.

"Sex is unsanitary, Phil. I haven't heard you complaining about that before."

"Fair point."

She kissed him again, finding herself almost unbearably aroused by his sheer thoughtfulness and the promise of their new surroundings. A pity she had always been uncomfortable with period sex.

"Why don't you go take a bath?" he suggested, kissing the tip of her nose. "I'll clean the kitchen and join you."

"You cooked, I should clean the kitchen."

"Nope." He pushed her up, swatting her arse lightly with one hand and giving her a teasing grin. "Take your wine. Don't unpack anything else on your way."

Jemma hesitated beside him, committing his grin to memory. "You're sure?"

"Yes." He pointed toward the doorway with an expression that was almost Agent Coulson at his most serious. "Move along."

Jemma left the kitchen with glass of wine in hand, and almost as an afterthought she paused at the door, considering the box at her feet. With a smirk she pulled out one of Phil's cookbooks and slotted it neatly onto the shelf next to the door, and decided to leave her defiance at that.

She climbed the stairs, hearing him chuckle behind her and loving it.

Jemma was five minutes into her bath when he swaggered in- and it was a swagger, she realized. One hundred percent swagger. "Satisfied with yourself, are you?" she asked, arching one brow. "You have done a magnificent job as a husband tonight, I must admit. You've made me feel like I'm lacking as a wife."

He gave her a disappointed look as he stripped. "Not my intention, Jemma. Can't a man pamper his wife without reprisal?"

"I suppose so." She relaxed back into the hot water as he settled across from her, adroitly angling himself so that he avoided the faucet spout. "I'm going to have to seriously consider how to make it up to- _oh_, that feels good."

He pressed his thumb more firmly into the arch of one of her feet. "Keep thinking on that, Jemma. Despite what you might think, I enjoy doing nice things for you, without expecting anything in return."

"The same here." She was tempted to simply lay back and accept his kindness, but instead grabbed one of his feet and began returning the favor. "This is a nice house, don't you think? I think we'll be happy here."

The look he gave her was warm and adoring. "I think we will."

By the time he bundled her into bed, clean and pleasantly tipsy, she had formulated a plan. "An orgasm," she said matter-of-factly, pulling back the covers he had just tucked over her. "A new house demands an orgasm, Phil. Lie back and think of England."

He gave her a befuddled look. "Jem-"

"If you don't want one, that's fine. I'm just offering, dear," she interjected, her tone earnest. "I know you'll make it up to me later, and quite frankly after that dinner you deserve one."

"It isn't required."

"Of course not," she replied, a tad bit offended. "I would never give you _required_ orgasms. Deserved ones, on the other hand, are quite a different category."

"They are?"

"Indeed." She pulled his boxers down, grinning as his obvious interest was revealed to her. "The wifely scale of deserved orgasms has everything to do with merit and desire and nothing to do with contractual obligation. Do I have your consent?"

"Yes, but you don't need to-"

She had her mouth around him before he could finish, and the groan he made was a reward in and of itself.

"Not my plan," he muttered afterward, when she had snuggled against his side and pulled the covers up over them. "I was supposed to do the seducing, not you."

"You can continue with your plan," she replied, satisfied. "I'm happy to be seduced."

"Not a surprise, now."

"But still delightful."

He was loose and relaxed under the arm she had slung over his chest, and as he slipped further and further into sleep (nuzzling against her hair, curving toward her, heavy and warm), Jemma lay wakeful. Maybe it was the creak of the house as it settled, or the wind outside, or the sound of the cats romping across the living room floor, but something kept her on cautious edge.

She lay still, not at all tempted to slip away to wander the halls, to make a cup of tea and read while the cats fought for possession of her lap. Jemma felt safe in that bed, behind locked doors and tucked against her warm husband.

That didn't help her sleep, or at least not for several hours. It did, however, help.

* * *

Phil did not need all of his husbandly intuition to know, when he woke the next morning, that Jemma should not be disturbed. She slept with the weight of someone who had resisted- or been unable to find- sleep, only to succumb mere hours till dawn. She didn't shift as he left the bed and drew the covers up around her shoulders, nor did she so much as twitch when he opened the door and both cats sauntered past him to jump onto the bed, arranging themselves around Jemma for an early morning nap.

He made his way past unpacked boxes and a few scattered catnip mice, walking into the kitchen with an unhurried stride. The dawn light was just beginning to filter through the trees when he took his first cup of coffee onto the porch.

The hour was early enough that the air was still cool and crisp, the faint breeze ruffling the leaves blending with the beginnings of birdsong. It was a world away from every other place he had lived over the past few years- planes, bunkers, hotel rooms- and he was content to sit there, quiet and still, absorbing the peace.

Skye, sleepy and clutching an empty mug, appeared at the screen door while he was enjoying his second cup. "AC, please save me," she said, a tad pitiful. "I can't find my coffee machine. All I have is a sea of boxes. I don't even know what's in the boxes, because I don't have this much stuff. I think they're breeding."

"Probably a 084," he agreed, unlatching the door for her. "Coffee is ready in the kitchen. Cream is in the fridge."

"Do you have any food?" She pushed a lock of hair away from her face, looking very small in her pajamas and flipflops. "I have some, but. Boxes."

Phil raised a brow, but followed her into the kitchen and checked on the breakfast casserole he had baking in the oven. "Start with this," he said, pulling an apple from the bowl on the table. "Breakfast will be done in about thirty minutes."

"You are killing me, AC."

"Says the woman who has essentially invited herself over for breakfast."

"Fair."

She moved back to the porch with a brimming mug and apple in hand and curled up in one of the chairs. "It's so quiet out here."

"Kind of the point." He considered her over the rim of his own mug. "How do you feel about this move?"

"I feel like an imposter." She gave him a crooked grin. "I don't even have a college degree, AC. Living off the grid kind of got in the way."

She had seemed so excited even the day before, but now he saw the doubt she had been hiding from them all. "Skye, you are one of the most brilliant people I know. If anyone here thinks the less of you for not having a degree, we should probably chuck them out."

"Ugh." She took a bite of her apple, shaking her head slightly. "It doesn't really matter, I guess, since I'm not teaching."

"Yet. But if you get bored out here, you could always go back to the city. Stark would love having you around." He waited a beat, assessing her. "Or you could go back into the field, either with SHIELD or the Avengers."

She chuckled, looking more amused than she had seconds before. "Being able to destroy buildings with my mind doesn't necessarily mean I'm Avengers material."

"I don't see why not. You have options, basically. We won't make you stay here."

She took a slow sip of her coffee and sighed. "I guess I just allowed myself to get caught up in the flow of things, you know? The last time I had the luxury of deciding what I wanted to do with myself I was living in a van. Now I'm some kind of SHIELD/Avengers communications liaison and I have a house." Skye looked equal parts affronted and confused by that. "I thought I'd end up in the dorms, like some kind of chaperone, and instead I get handed the keys to an actual building. It has a basement, AC. It has a permanent foundation, and I don't have to share it with anyone."

"We could still move you to the dorms," he offered. Phil wasn't sure if Skye was awed or inconvenienced by the idea of a permanent foundation, but he was fairly certain that she wasn't sure either. "But you would have to actually chaperone. If they want to party and come to class hungover, they'll have to sneak around like the rest of us did."

"It could be fun to terrify the newbies," she admitted. "And I know how to live in confined spaces. I don't know what I'll do with half the space in that house. Or the second bedroom. All of my friends and family live here."

"You could take up a hobby. Something that requires a lot of space, like art or weaving."

"Great idea. I'll run right out and get a loom," she replied dryly. "Maybe I'll start building model planes."

"Also a possibility."

They both glanced toward the open kitchen door at the faint sound of Jemma's voice, followed by the thunder of two cats charging across wood floors. "I'll stay out here for a while," Skye said quietly. "Maybe I'll turn out to be a house person after all."

"And if you're not, we'll find what works for you," he assured her. "Teaching, or field work, or leaving to get a degree. Hell, if you want to live in a van, we can work that out, too."

"Ehh." She grimaced. "You know, I think I'll pass on that. I've grown attached to indoor plumbing; better to think on that period fondly."

Jemma appeared in the doorway, one of his sweaters pulled on over her pajamas. "Good morning," she said with a tired smile, Pavlov batting at her ankles. "Skye, did you sleep well?"

"The house creaks. I think I heard raccoons on the front porch." Skye's face was utterly straight. "It was terrifying."

"Also, her boxes are breeding," Phil said with a sly smile, holding out his hand to Jemma. She took it, seating herself in his lap without a qualm. "Maybe we should go over there later and make sure nothing sinister is lurking in her home."

"I think it's more likely that Tony snuck half a department store into her moving van." Jemma yawned. "Who knows what you'll find in there. Anything from dishes to a candelabra to an actual Picasso."

"Well," Skye said consideringly, setting her apple core to the side. "That wouldn't be too bad. I do need plates. Some forks would be nice, too."

"I'll come and help you unpack, later." Jemma pressed a kiss to his cheek, smiling. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than you." He smoothed down her rumpled hair, recognizing Pavlov's handiwork. "Was he grooming you again?"

"Combing my hair with his claws. It isn't very conducive to sleep."

Skye was giving Pavlov an askance look at that very moment as he kneaded her lap, claws extended. "He does know how to withdraw them, right?"

"He does when playing with Hermia." Jemma reached down to scratch the small black cat between the ears. "So, yes."

Skye looked away from Pavlov, her mouth quirking into a small smile at the sight of them. "Maybe I should leave," she said, stroking Pavlov from his head to the tip of his tail. "I kind of doubt that I'll find my foul-mouthed soulmate at a school."

"A SHIELD school," Phil replied mildly, giving Jemma his mug when she held out a hand. Coffee was not her preferred caffeinated beverage, but apparently she wasn't picky this morning. "This isn't some ivy-decked prep school."

"Several students were quite foul-mouthed during my time at the academy," Jemma said. "Including Fitz. Trust me, demerits for inappropriate language were things we rarely worried about." She paused, taking a beat. "Except for in class, of course."

"Right." Skye shook her head. "Patience isn't exactly my strong suit."

Jemma met his eyes, a slight smile on her face. "The work doesn't exactly stop at first meeting," he said, reading her train of thought. "He- or she- might be an idiot, like me."

"Anyone watching your relationship would know that it's not always rainbows and kittens," Skye said dryly. "I've been around for most of it, you might recall."

He and Jemma continued to share a glance, and finally she turned away to meet Skye's gaze. "It's worth the work," she said simply, her hands curled around his coffee cup and her hair tumbling around her shoulders. He felt the weight of those words, heard the satisfaction underlying them, and hid his face against her hair for several seconds as relief filled him.

"AC's all overcome," he heard Skye say teasingly. "That's adorable."

Phil kissed the curve of Jemma's ear, taking in a deep breath to steady himself. "I'm just caffeine-deprived," he said once he could trust his voice again. "So, Skye. Tell me about your plans to decorate."

"Well, I could always center the color scheme around my hula girl."

* * *

The next two weeks did not go smoothly, but Jemma hadn't expected them to. Between scheduled faculty meetings, last-minute revisions of syllabi, and attempting to get the house in order Jemma could scarcely breathe.

And then, of course, there was the slight incident with Steve and the grill he had purchased, an incident that very nearly set his porch ablaze and did not result in any kind of edible meal. Grilling, it turned out, was not at all Steve's forte.

"I turn my back for one minute and he nearly burns the damn house down," Bucky groused, busying himself with unpacking the boxes of books in her office. She had been so busy with other things the task had been left until the eleventh hour. He slammed a volume onto the shelves with more force than was necessary, causing her to wince. "And he ruined those steaks."

"Surely it must be a learnable skill," Jemma replied, reaching out to rescue a first edition from Bucky's hands. "I doubt he purchased a grill just to torture you."

"Not so sure." He shelved more books, this time with more care than before. "I think he thought, 'Huh, playing with fire, that sounds dangerous'. Next thing I know he'll be swallowing knives or walking over coals in the backyard."

"No, Bucky, he'll just wait until you're in the field again and then throw himself out of an airplane without a parachute." She grinned at his growl. "I think it is far more likely that he purchased the grill hoping to make you dinner."

"Only that punk could make dinner dangerous." He grimaced, and then reached out to tap her on the nose. "What about you, doll. Done anything dangerous lately?"

"Other than standing on wobbly footstools to hang curtains, no."

"Don't believe you. You probably juggle grenades in your spare time."

"Only when Phil isn't around to comment," she replied pertly. "Now stop manhandling my books; you're damaging their spines. They aren't Hydra spies, you know."

She pulled him out of her office and towards their respective homes, having come to the conclusion that she was done putting her office to rights for the day. She had one more day before students began arriving, after all. Perhaps tomorrow she would lock the door and refuse to come out until she was finished, though if she did that someone would doubtlessly pick the lock to check on her.

Being friends with spies and superheroes had its disadvantages, at times.

"Is that smoke?" Bucky asked suspiciously as they approached the line of houses. "Excuse me; I have to strangle him."

"Please don't. It would make Phil so sad." She glanced at the windows of her own home at that, and saw that they were dark. He had gotten caught up in his own work, then, and had forgotten the time. She sighed at Bucky's obvious impatience. "Go, save us from Captain America, Grillmaster."

The cats greeted her at the door, winding around her ankles in the dim light of the foyer. "Yes, yes," she said with a chuckle. "I'll feed you in a minute, but I won't be able to do that if you trip me and I break my neck."

The kitchen was likewise dark, which ended any suspicion she might have had that Phil had been planning some kind of surprise. She shrugged, pulling cans of cat food from the cabinet and preparing portions for the expectant felines sitting at her feet.

After appeasing the cats she turned her attention to the contents of the fridge and pantry, considering what was available. A salad, a few baked potatoes, some chicken in wine sauce- all doable and fairly quick. She set to work, pleased to have dinner ready for Phil when the opposite was so often the case.

It was perhaps thirty minutes later when she heard a key in the lock on the front door, followed quickly by the sound of the cats stampeding to meet their favorite food provider.

"Don't believe their pitiful looks," Jemma told Phil with a grin when he entered the kitchen. "They have been fed, and recently, at that."

Her grin disappeared as she took in the look on his face: weariness and disappointment, two very distressing emotions. "Phil?"

He brushed a kiss against her lips, his expression still solemn. "We need to talk, Jemma."

She felt a mild surge of nausea, at that, and reached out to turn down the heat under the pan of chicken. "Was there an attack?" she asked anxiously, considering the multitude of terrors that their various enemies might unleash. "Is it… is it the virus?"

"No, no," he said quickly, pulling her into a hug. "No, I'm sorry, it isn't anything SHIELD related. It's me, Jem." He pulled back enough to meet her gaze, giving her a faint, sheepish smile. "I told you I would get tested, and I did."

She remembered, then, the morning of their move and how distressed she had been by the evidence of yet another month without a pregnancy. "Oh." She hesitated, considering the look on his face. "Please tell me, Phil."

"It's me, sweetheart," he said gently, his hands still at her waist. "I'm sterile."

"Ah," she said in a whisper, mind whirring. "Well," she said after a long silence, "there is adoption, or a donor."

Jemma wouldn't- she couldn't- show disappointment now, not when Phil's own disappointment was so obvious. "It's all right, Phil," she said, pulling him closer. "Don't fret, please. We'll be fine."

He wrapped her in a tight embrace, his lips against her hair. "Luckily, there is a third option," he said, an odd note of something that might have been humor in his voice. "I'd forgotten until today, when the doctor looked through my file and brought it to my attention."

Phil released her, stepping back and taking her hands in his. "Several years before New York," he began, "I began to think about my advancing age-"

She frowned at him. "Really, Phil."

"-my advancing age, and you." He shrugged. "I knew you would be younger than me, Jemma. So I made a few deposits."

Jemma's mouth dropped open. After a few seconds of stunned silence she said, "Are you telling me that SHIELD runs a sperm bank?"

"It is an option for male agents." He squeezed her hands, a slight smile still on his face. "Don't ask me why no one has ever asked to store your eggs, Jemma. You'll have to take that up with Fury."

"I most certainly will," she replied indignantly. "Mine might not even be good after the whole Chitauri incident." She took in a deep breath, feeling a strange mix of anger and sudden excitement. The latter emotion was better to dwell on, she decided. She could take hope in this. "It's viable?" she asked tentatively.

"Very much so."

He looked so hopeful at that, and so uncertain, that she gave in to the impulse to throw herself into his arms. "Your younger self was brilliant," she told him firmly, and then kissed him soundly. "I think your current self is quite brilliant as well," she added once they had parted, equally breathless. "Take me to bed."

"Before dinner?" he asked, relief clear on his face.

"We'll work up an appetite," she promised, untucking his shirt and running her hands up and over his chest. "We have a plan, now. Let's celebrate."

Hurriedly he switched off the stove and oven, placing the lid on the pan before picking her up in his arms. "I'm sorry we can't do this the fun way," he told her as he carried her toward the bedroom. "So sorry, Jemma."

She kissed his neck, relief and sorrow warring within her. "We still get our fun," she pointed out, undoing his tie and buttons haphazardly. "A lot of fun."

He placed her carefully on the bed. "I really am sorry, Jemma."

"For what?" she asked. "For being brought back to life with a serum that apparently sterilized you? I'm not pleased by the way Fury went about it, Phil, but I that means I have you." She stroked his face, fighting back tears. "I need you, Phil. Children are a bonus."

"Okay." He was obviously just as emotional as she was over the entire situation; a tear dropped from his face to splash against her cheek. "I need you, too, Jemma. I love you so much."

"I love you, too." She tugged him down to her, clenching her hands in the fabric of his shirt. "Let me show you how much."

* * *

They ate dinner late, sitting close at the kitchen table with his arm around her shoulders and her hand on his thigh. Jemma wore only a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt, and she kept her legs against his, her bare toes brushing against one of his calves.

She seemed settled, in a sense, which didn't surprise him. She had been given an answer to a question, and had formulated a plan, and would continue on with that indomitable spirit he loved so much.

Phil was glad of it. She deserved whatever hope he could give her in this situation, and he was only glad that he had had the sense to take precautions years beforehand. It stung, though- to know that he couldn't give her a child without scientific intervention, and perhaps not even then.

"Are we all right?" he asked her, his own emotions bittersweet.

She looked up, a tinge of the same bittersweetness in her eyes. "Better than," she said in a tone that could only be truthful. "So much better than all right."

"Good." He pressed a kiss against her temple, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I'm so glad."

* * *

"This is a mistake, and a catastrophe," Fitz said firmly, running his hands through his already disordered hair. "Jem, we should run and never look back."

"Really, Fitz," Jemma sighed, feeling affectionate nonetheless. That was as much as she could muster, at least at that point. She was too emotionally weary to pick the teasing kind of fight that would help him. "You should feel honored to be educating the next generation of scientists."

"You remember what we got up to at the academy, Jem. I seem to remember a few really inadvisable late nights fueled by alcohol and unsound hypotheses."

Jemma shrugged, patting the line of her skirt. "And yet here we are, about to usher in a new school year. There will probably be at least one party in the dorms, but there you go."

"What if we can't spot the bad seeds?" He turned and began to pace the length of the room, straightening the hem of his cardigan absently. "A bunch of geniuses with near-unlimited resources? The world might end."

"We didn't destroy the world." She resisted rolling her eyes. "Nor did any class before us. Calm down, Fitz."

"Calm down. Calm down!"

Her beloved husband entered the room at that, looking like an oasis of calm in comparison to Fitz's anxiety- but then, he usually did. "Ready?" he asked, laying a hand gently on her lower back. "They're growing restless."

She spared one glance at Fitz, watching as he straightened and began to breathe regularly, despite his disastrous portents of only moments before. He met her gaze and gave her a sudden grin, straightening his tie nervously. "Ready," she told Phil, confident that Fitz had attained some kind of equilibrium. "The others…?"

Phil leaned in and kissed her lightly, hand steady against her back. There was a new gravity to him that pained her. "Ready as well. This is your show, Jemma."

Fitz chuckled behind her. "Your speech, he means."

Well, it had been her bloody idea. She smoothed her skirt for the dozenth time, feeling a slight clutch in her chest. She should have fobbed it off on May- though May wouldn't have accepted the honor, most likely. "I'm almost afraid I'll forget English," she admitted sheepishly, reaching out to adjust the already perfect line of Phil's collar. "I should have recorded this ahead of time and lip-synched."

"No. You'll be fantastic." Phil lifted his other hand to her cheek. "Everything will be fine."

"We can always start that coffee shop, right?" she joked, half-serious.

"That is always an option. First, though, you need to welcome your students." Phil smiled down at her, pulling her gently but firmly toward the door. "Then we can talk about a menu."

She took in a breath, and then another and another as they left the room and walked down the short hall, Fitz tailing behind. Her sudden nerves seemed to be calming him, which didn't surprise her. They stopped at the door. She could hear, beyond the walls, the murmur of hundreds of people attempting to be quiet.

In an odd way, that steady thrum of noise gave her courage. Those were her students- and Fitz's students, and May's students, and Yates' students- all waiting for the school year to begin. She remembered the nervous thrill that she had always felt as a student at that moment, and felt something similar course through her now.

"Let's begin, shall we?" she said quietly, glancing at Phil and Fitz in turn. Fitz nodded, rocking back on his heels as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Phil kissed her cheek, and then reached for the doorknob.

The room quieted as she walked toward the podium with them behind her, the occasional sibilant whisper breaking above the general hum. She didn't need to wear her academic togs to garner attention- and Jemma wasn't sure which cap and gown she would have worn, even if that had been an option. The majority knew her on sight, and as she approached the microphone the hubbub settled to near-silence.

She took a moment to survey the students before her. The schools hadn't been segregated: all three academies had been sorted into one strict alphabetical order, blending science and operations and communications into a kind of whole. By the end of their training, hopefully they would be a unified team.

Jemma clasped her hands, settling them onto the podium, and smiled. "Good afternoon," she said, her words coming out with nary a pause. "Welcome to the Academy."

* * *

_AN: This is the end of part two. Part three is forthcoming!_


End file.
